How insulting! He, winner of the Aubery Award for a Literary Debut, dropped by the same publishing house selling Twenty Shades of Green, the pornographic fictionalization of the lifestyle of some tree-hugging nymphomaniac.

William had thought for certain, take-your-royalties-to-the-bank certain, that another publisher would pick him up. His next book was completed to second draft and, if he did say so himself, the storyline and his writing were top notch. The night before, he’d fallen asleep imagining the publishers’ bidding war over his masterpiece. In his dream, his previous editor begged him for forgiveness, assuring him the termination letter was just a silly mistake.

That was until today.

Today, William finally heard back from his agent. God knows what had happened to the man. After countless calls and an armada of emails, his messages growing increasingly irate, his expectation was a profuse apology.

Upon hearing Morris’ voice, he’d drawn a deep breath, ready to play the role of the bigger person and excuse his agent’s tardiness, once the shirker said sorry.

Morris, though, hadn’t given him a chance to even say hello and as the call progressed William grew bewildered by his aloof tone. This same person had assured him only five years ago of “a long career filled with awards.” They’d be “toasting dozens of best sellers on a tropical island,” he’d said often.

Now Morris didn’t sound like that man at all. There was no excuse or apology, and William sensed his agent might be typing something, unrelated, while talking to him. He couldn’t even pay attention for a lousy five minutes.

“No need for you to keep calling William,” he said. “I’ll call when I’ve news.”

He’d begun to ask himself what he would do about the agent’s nonchalant attitude, when Morris insisted he must hang up. His excuse? He needed to rush off to the bathroom. “A stomach bug.” Well, that sounded like fiction.

As he reread the horrible, despicable, ugly review for the third time, he suddenly felt alone. Totally and miserably by himself with nobody he could trust. He reminded himself that solitude came with the job and that’s what he’d created. He made his life about the work and not about people or relationships.

This little gem, along with all his other catch phrases, he’d repeated in dozens of interviews. He had his go-to quotes, which in hindsight he regretted, in light of his diminishing success.

Diminishing success!

Failure. Let’s be honest and frank.

Setback, he corrected himself.

His go-to quotes seemed a touch arrogant now.

“I don’t know from where the words come. My muse just loves me.”

“I turn up every day to a job I love. Luckily the job, which it seems is all I’m good for, pays the bills.”

“If I knew the secret to writing a best-seller, I’d bottle the magic and make a fortune, but I’m just lucky.”

Those lines now haunted him, and he wished they could be wiped from history. The dreadful reviewers discovered them in Google searches and included many in their commentary using a mocking tone.