This must still be Saturday night, she thought. We gotta get this train rolling. . Act Writing romance novels has got to be the way to make a living in the world. All at once it came to her—what was missing besides the usual advertisements. In an instant she remembered what had happened: A man had tried to kill her.
And very occasionally I was employed as a last-minute makeover subject. I think the author sounded at times like a middle school girl writing notes in her diary, at other times like a poet. I read this book all the time and I never get tired of it. Liz realized this was some sort of train. Liz was the only woman within eyesight wearing pants. You sure are, thought the token clerk as he watched her slip the token into the turnstile and head toward the downtown F train stairwell before returning to his tabloid newspaper. But a bump on her head, a fall through the doors of an arriving train.
The crowd exchanged perplexed glances. Independent, blue-jean-clad Liz regained consciousness in what seemed to be the Roaring Twenties, amid Broadway's glittering lights. The first two didn't work out. Not only had I never really been to New York before, but I believe I was the only editorial assistant in the magazine industry who still wore knee socks. There was the Sun, the Evening Star, the Herald-Tribune, the Daily News, the Post, the Times. Instead, I received a call from Linda three days later, offering me a two book contract. Independent, blue-jean-clad Liz regained consciousness in what seemed to be the Roaring Twenties, amid Broadway's glittering lights.
And the few women without hats were draped in luscious evening gowns, some with uneven hems, some heavily beaded. First time travel I've read which was only a mere 60 years or so, but it really worked. I found Sylvia Plath's original carbon of a short story she submitted while still in high school. Suddenly alive in a South of scorched earth and tears, she knew this was where she had always belonged. Actually, writing was the third choice on my short list of career possibilities, right after Fairy Princess and Prima Ballerina. Weird, muttered Liz as she turned to climb the familiar steps.
The door closed all in one piece, as a single sliding unit. My stop is West 4th Street, Liz finally answered the young man. Then her mom had died, and it all seemed pointless. But as much as I loved reading those marvelous stories, what I really wanted to do was to write one. She rewarded him with another smile.
Yet Liz didn't know of the breathtaking adventure about to begin. Dark-haired, tall, with a powerful body and ruggedly handsome face, Alec got up from his piano and walked into her life. She was as certain of that as she was that she had been sent through the corridors of time for a reason. But her mind was churning, trying to come up with an explanation. The first two didn't work out. It is worth reading a second time but I don't want to read it in a paper back.
Writing romance novels has got to be the way to make a living in the world. Like most writers, I knew early on that I wanted to be a writer. Liz did as she was told and began to feel better. As a twenty-eight-year-old single woman, she was constantly the victim of well-meaning friends. The only real criticism I have is the lack of conflict between Liz and Alec, and I wasn't even entirely bothered by it.
The enormity of where she apparently was—New York City in the 1920s—seemed impossible. Had Sid slipped something into her drink? They were of wicker, finely woven and glossy. The story includes lots of information on Broadway in the 1920's, along with general history of New York City. Finally a man in the back spoke up: Ask her where she gets her hootch! She glanced in both directions. The two face the danger of bootleggers together and head on. Did I mention how much I love this job? There was a slight breeze, and she glanced above her head and saw a large rotating ceiling fan. Then I lucked into a fabulous job - as a jacket copy writer at a publishing house called Pocket Books.