Gemotions

"Uninspired prose? Uninspired!" Eleanor’s voice was a tight, controlled rasp as she reread the editor's comments. She crumpled the email into a ball, the digital words feeling as flimsy and offensive as a child's drawing. Her stomach churned. How dare they? She'd spent months crafting the perfect sentences, the breathtaking metaphors, the – clearly – brilliant plot twists.

She slammed the laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. She paced, her high heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor, a frantic energy coursing through her. She envisioned the publisher's office, all gleaming glass and minimalist furniture, the epitome of the soulless literary wasteland that had just rejected her.