written by Sylvia Lorianne Leong
published in the Spring 2026 Write On! newsletter
An unexpected knock on the door at midnight makes all a writer’s dreams come true, until it doesn’t.
I’m in a nest of blankets on the couch sipping Chardonnay in a solo celebration of my short story publication when a fierce pounding comes from my condo’s front door. Remote in hand, I lower the volume on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
The pounding comes louder, more impatient, as if a large-knuckled asshat has been knocking for a while and I didn’t hear it over the music. Through the dim flickering candlelight, the oversized clock on the wall ticks to midnight.
The audacity.
Unless my music was too loud and it’s a strata council member? Surely no one’s borrowing sugar at this hour.
The rapping comes once again, yet quieter, like a last ditch effort. I should be thankful my visitor is giving up. But damn, my curiosity is piqued.
I pull my navy-blue alphabet robe over my nightgown and shuffle towards the murmur of voices floating through the door. The peephole reveals the funhouse-mirror version of eight adults standing in the bright hallway.
What the …
I edge open the door. “Hello?”
Three women speak simultaneously, which only has the effect of garbling their names, while emphasizing their shared title, Literary Agent. That title dissolves any irritation I may have felt. The remaining five are more disciplined, each holding up a hand in turn and announcing the name of their small publishing house.
Meanwhile, I’ve opened my door wider, my heartbeat quickening. Do they have the wrong address? I can only stare at them until I remember to close my mouth.
In my silence, the eight publishing professionals exchange glances and erupt into nervous laughter. Then a tawny-haired gentleman clears his throat. “I think I can speak for us all. We’re requesting equal opportunity to either represent your literary career —” his hand sweeps towards the three agents “— or offer you a book deal directly.”
“For my novel, THE UNWICKED WITCH?” I ask. About bloody time it gained some traction.
But that title is met with blank stares.
Then the same man says, “No, we’re interested in your manuscript, ÉTAÍN’S DAUGHTER.” At once, their literary opinions fly at me: immersive descriptions, captivating protagonist, fantastic high-concept premise.
I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks hurt.
Still, how do they know about the novel? Did someone in my writing group leak my manuscript? I’ll need to confront them at the next meeting.
“But, I’m not even finished the first draft.” I admit.
The heightened atmosphere plummets. Some of them blink. Then all eight faces melt into disappointed expressions.
“I’m over halfway done. And I already know what’s going to happen.” Pleading creeps into my tone. “I can hurry.”
Some of them are shaking their heads. A literary agent reaches over and presses the elevator’s call button.
“I tend to edit as I go. I know you’re not supposed to.” My hand rests on Mr. Tawny’s arm and I breathe wine fumes all over him. “That’s what’s taking me so long.”
He gently pulls his arm away. The three literary agents and five acquiring editors file into the elevator.
“I’ll work faster, stay off Facebook, off CTV News, off the real-estate site.” My whining is annoying even to me. “I swear.”
The elevator door begins to close and the eight publishing professionals start chatting amongst themselves.
I rock back and forth on the threshold of my condo listening to the white-noise buzz of the bright hallway lights.
“Please,” I whisper, “come back.”
THE END
♥
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