"Sir, how may I help you?"
The receptionist was a blonde in her twenties, her smile sweet but strictly professional.
"I'd like to submit a manuscript. Here's a sample of my novel." Voss handed over a folder.
She flipped through it quickly. "Have you published anything before?"
"Uh… this is my first work."
Her smile faltered slightly. "Please wait a moment. I'll contact the editorial department."
She picked up the phone. "Hello, editorial? A gentleman wants to submit a manuscript… What? A new author?… Okay, I understand."
Hanging up, her smile looked even more artificial. "I'm very sorry, but our editorial department isn't accepting submissions from new authors right now. We suggest you publish some short works in small literary magazines first, then try again after you've gained recognition."
"You won't even take a look?" Voss protested. "My story's really exciting…"
"Those are the company's rules. Thank you for understanding."
Her tone had gone cold, and Voss knew there was no point in arguing.
"Alright. Thank you." He packed up his folder and walked out.
Stepping out of Random House's main doors, Voss took a deep breath. He had expected rejection — he was, after all, a complete unknown.
"It's fine. There are other publishers." He checked the list in his hand. "Next stop, Penguin Books."
Penguin's office wasn't as grand as Random House's skyscraper, but its modern twenty-story building still loomed tall.
This time, Voss got straight to the point. "I have a novel about World War II I'd like to submit to your company."
The receptionist, a more experienced woman in her thirties, gave him a sharp look. "May I ask which agent recommended you?"
"Agent?" Voss blinked. "I don't have one."
"Have you published any works before?"
"No. This is my first."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. We don't accept submissions from unrepresented authors. You'll need a literary agent, or you could enter writing competitions to build some recognition first."
"But my story is really good…"
"Industry rules, I'm afraid."
The result was the same. Voss left Penguin Books deflated.
"Damn it. These big publishers really do have high gates to climb." He muttered, walking down the street. "They won't even give it a glance."
Over the next few hours, Voss hit five more publishers. Every time, it was the same story. No agent, no track record, no chance.
"Simon & Schuster, HarperCollins, Macmillan…" He looked at the crossed-out names on his list. "Total defeat."
By one in the afternoon, he was exhausted and starving. He grabbed a hot dog from a street vendor and sat on a bench.
"Big publishers are impossible." He bit into the hot dog. "I need a new strategy."
He reconsidered his approach. Maybe he should start smaller — find an indie publisher, get his name out there, build some readership, then aim higher.
"Small presses should be more open, right?" His determination reignited.
A quick search pulled up a few small publishers around New York. The first was Beacon Publishing, a tiny house specializing in new authors.
Beacon's office was in a run-down three-story building, its paint peeling. Compared to the gleaming towers he'd visited earlier, it was almost shabby. But to Voss, it was perfect. All he wanted was for someone to read his work.
Inside, there wasn't even a receptionist — just a sign: Editor Osc — Second Floor.
"This is… modest," Voss muttered with a wry smile, clutching his folder as he climbed the stairs.
The second-floor hallway had faded carpet and walls lined with posters of books no one had ever heard of. He found the door and knocked.
"Come in," called a weary voice.
Voss stepped inside — and froze. The cramped office was dominated by one massive desk, buried under mountains of manuscripts. Sitting behind it was a bespectacled man in his forties, balding and haggard, absorbed in what he was reading.
"Excuse me, are you Editor Osc?" Voss asked carefully.
"Mm." The man didn't look up. "State your business. I'm busy."
Voss eyed the mountain of paper. Busy was an understatement.
"I'm here to submit a manuscript. Here's a sample of my novel."
"New author?" Osc finally glanced at him over his glasses.
"Yes. This is my first work."
Osc didn't look surprised. He set aside the manuscript he'd been holding and held out his hand. "Give me your pages and your contact information."
Voss quickly pulled out twenty printed pages. "This is the beginning of the story. Uh… I don't have a phone, but I can leave my address."
"No phone?" Osc raised an eyebrow. "People still live like that?"
"Money's tight," Voss admitted awkwardly.
Osc didn't comment, just nodded. "Write down the address."
Voss scribbled it on a sticky note and handed it over along with the pages.
Osc casually flipped through the sample. His brows lifted at the title: Reborn into WWII: Fighting Beside Captain America.
"Superhero fiction?"
"Yes, but grounded in the historical setting of World War II. The superheroes are just one element." Voss explained quickly.
"Hmm." Osc set the sample on a pile. "I have to read dozens of manuscripts every day. Yours is in line. You'll hear back tomorrow at the latest."
"You'll actually read it?" Voss asked, half-skeptical.
Osc sighed. "Kid, this is my job. I read every submission. It just takes time." He gestured at the mountain of paper. "See this? All submitted today. I'll go through them one by one. If yours passes the first cut, we'll send someone to notify you."
"Send someone?"
"We're small. Phone bills add up. If you're chosen, someone will come to your house to discuss a contract. If not… well, no news means no."
It wasn't perfect, but at least it wasn't a flat rejection.
"Alright. I'll wait to hear from you." Voss turned to leave.
"Hold on." Osc glanced at the title again. "Captain America, huh… Interesting subject. Superhero stories are hot right now. If your writing holds up, you might actually have a shot."
Hope surged in Voss. "Thank you!"
"Don't get too excited. I said might. It all depends on quality." Osc buried himself in another manuscript. "Now go. I'm busy."
Voss left the office much lighter than when he'd entered.
Out on the street, he took a deep breath. For the first time that day, someone had promised to actually read his work.
"I'll know by tomorrow." He checked his watch — three in the afternoon. "Time to go home and wait."
By the time he returned to his apartment, his mood had completely lifted.
Inside, Tom and Jerry were waiting, eyes wide with curiosity.
"How'd it go?" Tom's look seemed to say.
"There's hope!" Voss raised his hands triumphantly. "The big publishers all turned me down, but this small press promised to actually read it. I'll know tomorrow!"
Tom and Jerry exchanged a look of shared relief.
"And the editor said superhero stories are really popular right now. I made the right choice!" Voss was practically bouncing with excitement.
Jerry scampered onto his shoulder and patted his cheek with his tiny paw — you worked hard.
"Not hard at all!" Voss laughed, stroking Jerry's head. "For our future, this is nothing."
Tom pointed at the clock, then at himself, reminding Voss of his evening gig at the restaurant.
"Right, right — you've got work tonight." Voss slapped his forehead. "I got so excited I almost forgot. Go get ready — we can't let the guests down."
Tom nodded, heading for the wardrobe to change into his tuxedo.
"You put on a good show tonight," Voss grinned, sinking into the sofa. "Tomorrow, we might have double the good news to celebrate."
As he watched Tom adjust his bowtie in the mirror, Voss felt anticipation burning bright in his chest.
"Keep going, Voss," he told himself. "The chance you've been waiting for is finally here."