With a knot lodged firmly in his dry upper throat, a visible tremor pulsating his hand, and a hopeful yet fearful look on his face, he instructed the computer to display the literary life-sustaining data he had patiently awaited, while voicing a silent prayer. It seemed an eternity, as if his internet were an old dialup modem from the early nineties, as he waited for the monitor to display the number 650, 041, which was his sales rank on Amazon for his self-published memoir.
“It’s tearing me up Ma all these rejection letters are getting piled up on my counter from everywhere I sent my work to and they all come back to me with illegible red ink glaringly scrawled across them which no one in their right mind can read so how am I supposed to know how to make them better?”
I could hear the sarcasm dripping from her voice over the crackling phone line “I’m sure you will be crying me a river about these rejections when you have your first book published until then buck up and grow a backbone.”
When I read your book, it brought me to tears.
Not in a good way, you understand.
“Her spirit left in that ambulance. Did she rise up to see Jake working on her frantically and thank him as a final irony before she went away?”
I hold the object of desire in my hand relishing the texture, the solidness and the wonders it contains. I curl into the comfortable couch, a warm cup of herbal mint tea in the other hand and open the first page.
Giant Undead Babies. Sounds Interesting…