In truth, Jenny had never worked at accepting submissions face-to-face from strangers. In her previous life, with advanced information access, her work was usually done at home. She only needed to open her laptop, sip a cup of fragrant coffee, and click on her email to check unanswered messages. It was only when the cooperation became particularly deep, after multiple exchanges via email, that she would meet the author once or twice. That process was dignified.
But today, after pulling open the partition, a crowd of people immediately appeared before Jenny, manuscripts in hand, lining up. They wore ill-fitting, worn tweed coats, some even smelling of smoke. Many seemed in dire financial straits, as if they might need charity at any moment, yet each of them was spirited.
Jenny didn't even have time to drink water. She carefully and patiently examined each manuscript, reading through the stories from beginning to end. Faced with the chattering of these authors, she conscientiously answered their questions, doing her best to make them understand that she comprehended their stories. They each had their own characteristics and different ideas, but without exception, they displayed great confidence in front of Jenny. They rambled on about the main threads of their stories and their past writing résumés, reluctant to leave the counter until she had finished organizing all their manuscripts.
At first, Jenny was nervous, afraid she might not do well enough, worried about missing something good, and hoping to improve her skills through contact with these authors, or perhaps even discover some hidden literary gems. But after meeting the third and fifth submitters, she gradually began to feel tired. She suddenly understood that there were no hidden gems in the line before her. True great writers would not emphasize to a minor clerk that their stories were full of critical insights, absolutely thought-provoking, and would teach others something, demanding that she immediately show them to the editor, preferably summoning the section head.
Jenny sighed, feeling she had been somewhat naive. Real gems didn't come knocking on your door. Many of the authors queuing at Dawling were speculators hoping for overnight fame. They wouldn't listen to any of her suggestions. At least in front of her, they were quite unruly. They were far less practical than Mr. Ethan, the down-and-out author she had met before. Only a very few communicated with her with a normal mindset.
She kept sorting manuscripts, constantly reflecting on where the problem lay. Meanwhile, the noise from the surrounding counters grew louder. The space behind the counter was so small she couldn't stretch her legs. The stale air made her feel suffocated. Jenny's lips were nearly parched. Finally, she saw off the last submitter.
She buried her head in sorting the thick half-box of manuscripts into categories, noting down everyone's address and remarks, just to ensure there were no errors or omissions. However, when the clock tower chimed eleven in the morning, Jenny saw several men in tuxedos passing through the hall next to the reception room. They seemed to be company partners, having just finished a quarterly meeting, about to leave the building together, causing a crowd at the main entrance.
She averted her gaze and was about to get up when she suddenly noticed her colleague handling poetry and essay submissions next door. Her name was Monique LeBanca. She had also entered Century Weekly through yesterday's interview but had jumped from another publishing company.
She appeared to be about twenty, different from Jenny's brown hair and green eyes and conservative, simple clothing. She had lively black eyes and jet-black hair styled in a fashionable updo. A shiny pearl stud adorned her earlobe. She looked like a French immigrant. Although both were at the counter receiving submissions, she seemed much more relaxed. She was sitting behind the counter, lifting her skirt, pulling a foot clad in a transparent stocking out of a ribbon-trimmed low-heeled shoe to stretch for a while. She held a coffee cup in her hand, and the wooden partition in front of her was already closed, though Jenny remembered there were still two people waiting outside for poetry and essay submissions.
Jenny was shocked by the other's ease. She didn't expect that the next second, Monique would turn her head and look at her. Monique had worked as a clerk for two years elsewhere. She could tell at a glance that this pretty but somewhat rustic girl had never done counter work before; she was too dedicated.
Jenny quickly looked away, inexplicably feeling that the other seemed to have something to say to her. However, the other also turned away and opened the wooden partition in front of her.
Jenny stood behind and silently observed Monique's process of receiving submitters. The submitters handled by Monique generally seemed to have a better attitude. Even though she was indifferent to these authors and extremely casual, she controlled the pace of work.
Jenny began to reflect on whether she had a problem. Carrying a cardboard box of sorted manuscripts, she took the hydraulic elevator to the editorial office upstairs.
At this time, many people were still working in the office. Polly was sitting opposite Jenny's desk. She had already opened a tableful of letters and was sorting them one by one, looking quite serious.
Jenny placed the manuscripts next to her, and together with the exhausted Polly, they registered all the manuscripts. Mail submission was too slow and prone to loss, so authors didn't like using this channel. There were only about a dozen letters per day. The authors submitting in person on the first floor numbered over thirty, all living in New York, able to take advantage of proximity.
Finally, Polly couldn't hold on anymore. She excused herself to the bathroom and left the office. Jenny then alone classified the manuscripts into five stacks, separated them with small clips, re-read them, and sorted them by fluency of content.
A few minutes later, Jenny carried a large pile of documents to find Mr. Blair, who hadn't gone downstairs for lunch yet.
"Mr. Blair, this is the submissions Polly and I sorted. They are roughly divided into five categories by subject matter, arranged from top to bottom by fluency of content."
Mr. Blair was writing at his desk. Next door, Mr. Eliot was still polishing a letter with Ronald, so Blair couldn't leave first. Jenny's arrival made Mr. Blair turn his head to look. He hummed in acknowledgment, reached out, and pulled out the top manuscript from each of the five categories.
"I won't look at the rest. Send them back."
Jenny was stunned for a moment. She had fifty manuscripts in her hands, and only one-tenth were worth a glance from Mr. Blair, the assistant editor. The remaining manuscripts seemed to sink into the vast ocean.
Mr. Blair noticed Jenny's astonished expression. He felt no guilt, but calmly said with a friendly look: "Mr. Eliot is now writing to an author whose new book just sold sixty thousand copies, trying to get him to write another long story for the weekly. He won't waste time on those third-rate writers downstairs. However, since you think these five manuscripts are smooth and readable, I will read them. There's nothing much to do this afternoon. You can go to the archives across the hall to organize past accepted submissions. Tomorrow, I hope you can harden your heart and directly reject half of these people. After all, we all know that Century Weekly is the greatest weekly in New York's future, not a relief station for impoverished writers."
With that, Blair smiled disdainfully and helplessly, then tapped the pile of wastepaper Jenny was holding. Jenny immediately lowered her head, absorbing and digesting these things. "I understand."
It seemed that the fiercely competitive print media industry now was much harsher than the society centuries later. With a heavy heart, Jenny turned and carried the stack of paper to the mailroom downstairs, returning all the manuscripts. She felt she had been doing useless work all day, which was very discouraging.
At that point, Jenny suddenly understood why Monique next door adopted that attitude towards the job. Monique had seemed to want to tell her something this morning but, after consideration, decided not to interfere. To get some advice from her, Jenny decided to sacrifice her lunch break to seek guidance.
Before that, she didn't intend to go empty-handed. She bought a pair of lined suede gloves from a boutique on South Street. Considering Monique's fashionable nature, she thought this gift was the only thing the other might deign to accept. Even if she refused, Jenny could keep them for herself—it wouldn't be a waste.
Back in the dormitory, Fujena had already returned to cook in the kitchen. The other two roommates had just come back. Jenny tidied up a bit, asked a few neighbors, and found Monique's room on the fourth floor. It was a cramped triple room. Jenny didn't enter but called Monique out.
Monique had just finished lunch. She loosened her bun, picked up a cup of black tea, leaned against the doorframe, and asked Jenny what she wanted. Jenny pursed her lips, then finally looked up frankly and generously. "Can we talk in private? I have something I'd like to ask you."
Monique nodded, went back to put down her teacup, and pointed to the balcony at the end of the hallway. "Let's talk there."
Five minutes later, Jenny stood on the balcony. The nearby rooftops were covered with white snow. The noon sun reflected off the fine specks of light. Some fabric drying by the balcony fluttered in the wind. She handed her gift to Monique, hoping she would accept it, and earnestly asked her question.
Monique listened, smiled, and declined Jenny's gift, saying to her: "Jenny, I have to admit, you are really capable. I heard about what happened during the interview. Secretary Frank and Editor Eliot hesitated in the office for a while before deciding on you, and you've indeed lived up to their expectations. But you must be dealing with these authors for the first time, right? You worked part-time at the post office in your small town, didn't you? In a place like that, your patient and meticulous approach could indeed earn respect."
Jenny was still surprised by Monique's first two sentences when she continued: "But this is New York. No one will respect you because you have a good attitude. Instead, it will make them more arrogant and troublesome. If you can't control them, they won't take you seriously. If that's the case, no author will listen to your advice. You won't be able to show your skills or help them. Then their many immature manuscripts will still be used by the editors as wastepaper to burn in the tea stove, and you won't be able to prove yourself through this position, right?"
Understanding the hint, Jenny nodded. "You're right."
"Whether it's your dress, attitude, or speech, people can tell at a glance that you're a newcomer. That's not good." Monique patted Jenny on the shoulder. "You should keep these pretty things to adorn yourself."
With that, she brushed past, leaving Jenny facing Lower Manhattan from the balcony, sniffing back a runny nose. Indeed, she couldn't rely solely on her previous life's experience to live perfectly now. There was still much to learn.
After figuring things out, Jenny turned to leave but accidentally bumped into Marian. "Is it really you? Jenny?" The last time Marian saw Jenny, she was a collator in the printing factory. It had only been a few days, and now Jenny had clearly become an office clerk in the building. "It's me. If there's nothing else, I'll be going." Jenny met her appraising gaze without any embarrassment or retreat and brushed past her. Marian watched her leave calmly, her eyes following her. She had always thought that a country girl like Jenny, with only a face and no skills, would at most marry a mechanic like her cousin. What was the world coming to?