Morris had tapped the top of the manuscript pages, then shook his head, his face serious. He crooked his elbow and pointed a finger at his temple insinuating William had held a gun to his head.

“Okay, I’ll send it out to a few publishers who owe me a favor. Is that good enough?”

With that, Orelia’s future as an author was on its way. A Star is Born but with words, not acting or music. He’d loved both the films with Judy Garland and James Mason, and Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson. Something about an unknown making it against all odds was the age-old fairytale that captured everyone’s heart. He was not immune to becoming part of the story. Of course, he never thought he would be the loser like Mason and Kristofferson’s characters.

William wished he’d paid more attention to the storyline instead of thinking it was the men’s fault for envying their wives’ success. He wasn’t married to Orelia, but it sure felt they were a pair, their lives tangled reeds in a river.

Turned out he was right and Morris wrong. The publishers expressed great interest, albeit with one very serious modification. She’d been receptive to most of his ideas along the way, so this meeting, the meeting, hadn’t concerned him. He’d hoped the thrill of an offer to represent from an agent and a publisher considering her manuscript would overshadow the negative part of his news.

Until that day Orelia had been a keen student hanging on his every word. He became in his mind a guru of literature, a kindred of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, all the greats. That’s how she looked at him. While she was a diversion chewing up valuable time, someone as smart as her listening in rapt attention filled his soul with an emotional charge.

In his silliness at the time, their interaction, so enjoyable, even seeded an idea he might teach in the future at a prestigious university. Perhaps he’d receive an honorary doctorate as had J.K. Rowling and Bill Gates. For the love of what’s-wrong-with-the-world, P. Diddy and Kanye West scored one. If they could, he deserved an award already.

After he’d spent years honing his skills and awaiting his book’s publication, why shouldn’t he now reap the rewards? Certainly the money hadn’t flowed in as expected with a six-figure deal.

When they print that in the papers and trade magazines, they don’t mention where the number fell in the six-figures. His was low sixes, like 150 thousand low for the first manuscript. He’d signed a three-book contract, which meant the publisher held fifty percent until he delivered the third novel.

The contracts had always confused him. He was a writer, not an accountant or a business entrepreneur. Back then, nobody explained royalty payments only came every six months, and that you didn’t receive all your money. Publishers kept a percentage to cover returns—books the retailers returned that hadn’t sold.

The first year after Flying Toward the Sun, having a novel in stores and sitting on best seller lists was a thrill. But the excitement took only eighteen months to fade. He grew desperate, wondering quietly to himself if something was wrong. He wasn’t landlord-beating-at-his-door desperate, but he wasn’t dining out at five-star restaurants either. Unless the publishers paid, and that happened less often after the second book. In fact, within five months of its release, he stopped wondering anymore if something was wrong.