The muse grew bored and left the building.

Shame you didn’t bottle that secret, Barnes, because you’re clean out of luck.

When the magic evaporates all we’re left with is an empty hat and a dead rabbit.

On some obscure blogger website, which probably now boasted more readers than William, he found a quote that would be funny if it wasn’t about him.

“An ability to be alone comes with the job,” claims Barnes. Now his books will never be alone as they lay in the bargain bins looking for a home.

William wanted to curl up in a ball and die, to be reborn and start again tomorrow. He’d tried making himself small, but it didn’t work. He didn’t intend to hurt himself or give in to the feelings of worthlessness, but the emotions caught up with him without warning.

Last week he ended up under his desk, coiled in the dark hollow along with the dust bunnies. With his arms wrapped about his legs, his head resting on shaking knees, he’d sobbed tears of utter despair. At some point, sleep had taken him, or he’d passed out from the pain wound around his heart.

He’d like to indulge in a pity party. According to Queen Oprah and her clichés this was okay occasionally; then you’d snap back stronger than ever. Wrong.

He didn’t feel better at all. His mouth felt yuk with whatever disgusting fibers he’d inhaled. Saliva dribbled from a corner of his mouth. His knees ached as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to them, and his legs cramped and hurt like heck. How long he’d slept he was uncertain, but his head had begun to throb, announcing the imminent arrival of a migraine, threatening to become a major-graine.

He may as well eat M&M’s as take painkillers. They might dull the pain, but every time he thought about his career, the headache crept back.

Tomorrow he had a physiotherapist appointment because his right arm had begun to throb. There was something terribly wrong with his back too. A pea-sized lump had grown from nothing to a mass embedded between his shoulder blade and spine. Shards of stringy pain radiated from the spot. Every time he pressed on the swelling the thing felt connected to a flaming-red agony button.

He’d tried drinking, but his constitution couldn’t handle alcohol. Hemingway, Kerouac and Foster Wallace’s addictions somehow sounded romantic, but he couldn’t master the ability to drink more than half a glass.

The publisher had sent out early ARCs of Flying Toward the Sun. Advance Readers Copies, as they were known in the biz. William had renamed them Asshole Redneck Crapshoots, once the reviews started appearing.

He thought the negative responses were just a few random idiots who were too stupid to see the quality of his work. For a week or so, he’d held a slim hope they’d received uncorrected proofs, which had since been improved in the final edit. But no, even normal readers—and he used that term loosely—seemed to take joy in tearing his work to shreds, just like the professional vampire critics.