A Man Named Dave

promoting my books.
    Within a few weeks I received a call from an assistant editor who introduced herself as Marsha Donohoe. We spoke about the changes she wished to make and the schedule of publishing my first book. After hanging up the phone, I could not help but think what an incredible voice she had. Before my mind began to wander, I pushed Marsha out of my mind by burying myself in my work.
    Months passed. The more Marsha and I discussed every page, every paragraph, analyzing every word of the book, the more I found myself becoming enthralled by her. Besides having the sweetest voice I ever heard, I respected the passion she had for her work. I understood that editors could not afford to spend much time on any particular project due to the overwhelming amount of deadlines within the publishing world, yet because Marsha and I cared so much about the story, we would spend more than an hour wrangling over a single sentence. “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” I told her one day. “I don’t understand; I usually catch a lot of flak for trying to do my best. Why are you doing this?”
    “I may be new here,” Marsha confided, “but I’ve been involved with books all my life. And I gotta tell you, this book is one in a million. I swear to God, I couldn’t put it down. Before I even called you, I believed in this book. With all my heart, I believe in what you are doing.” Raising her voice with excitement, Marsha said, “Do you know how many lives you’re going to change with this? I don’t know you that well, Dave, but I think you’re one incredible person.”
    I pressed the phone so hard against my ear that I thought it would bleed. Not being used to compliments, I immediately mocked her. “I bet you say that to all the authors!” A second later, I said, “You believe, I mean, you truly believe I’m doing the right thing?”
    After our conversation I sat frozen in my chair. I couldn’t believe my luck. After all these years and endless battles, I was working with someone who had the same values as I did. “She believes!” I said out loud. “Marsha actually believes in me!”
    I never intended to cross the relationship between editor and author, but I lost myself as I savored every word of every minute Marsha and I spent on the phone. It was easy for me to become fascinated with her. At the end of editing each page, we would reward ourselves by telling stories and exchanging jokes. I soon became caught up not only in Marsha’s sense of humor, but in her work ethic and her honor. Over time, as she began to tell me about her struggles and disappointments in life, I realized the incredible willpower she had. Marsha never quit. Whenever she applied herself, she gave it her all. We made a pact that we could talk to each other about anything at any time. Marsha became my one true friend.
     
    Unexpectedly, weeks later after the end of one of our editing sessions, I leaned back in my chair, slowly exhaled as I closed my eyes, and imagined Marsha’s smile and the way she might toss her hair when she laughed. Before I could allow myself any sense of pleasure, I buried my affections. I knew Marsha was way out of my league. She was by far the kindest, most sensitive person I knew, while I was a hyperkinetic geek boy with baggage, hiding my insecurities behind my work and manic sense of humor.
    Marsha never gave up on me. Because of the graphic nature of some parts of the book, more than once she broke down and cried on the phone. One day, without thinking, I nearly swallowed the phone as if to get closer to her. “Mar, it’s okay, honey, it’s all right. That was a long time ago. It’s over; it’s over now.” A second after the words slipped out, I backtracked, “Mar, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem forward … please forget what I just said. Please?”
    “It’s okay. Precious,” Marsha sighed, “your book has become my baby. And when someone holds a place in my heart, I protect them. I just wish I could have been there for you. You’re just so precious to me. Please don’t apologize, we’re friends. I’ve been waiting for you to say something to me.”
    “I, uh …” I paused, thinking of her. “I, uh, just don’t want to hear you cry,” I stammered, still holding back. “I just don’t want you to be sad. Believe me, I’m fine. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
    “Dave, we’ve been working together for some time now. I know what you look like from the back cover of your book, but