She was a natural: she knew right away what a novel needed before going to press. As soon as an author emailed her a final manuscript, Eleonora would print out a copy, silence her phone, turn off her computer, remove her shoes, tuck her feet beneath herself on her swivel chair, and start reading, crossing out lines, marking up the pages with an orange pen. Weekends, she’d work in bed, lying on two orthopedic pillows and scratching her flaky scalp. With those wide-eyed looks of hers, the sighing, the laughing, the “No way!”s that kept her company while she read, she’d hunt down the story’s weak points and make her notes in the margins. When the main character was just on the verge of changing, but the writer was holding back, avoiding conflict or a major scene, Eleonora knew how to say, gently, over the phone or in person, in a honeyed voice (her written notes were also tactful): “After reading all these years, I’ve come to realize that I want to see the big emotions. Do the work. Show us who your characters are … I buy a book for moments like this: the son selling the house of his dead father. I don’t buy a book for the metaphors. You’re a great writer—you don’t need me to tell you that—but I get the feeling you’re afraid of something, you just don’t want to write this part, you’re practically begging me to ask for it, but you’re not taking me there…” The authors, now convinced, would accept the idea of spending months longer on a text they’d thought was ready. I’ve been doing the same job as Eleonora maybe ten years longer, and I find myself imitating her methods.