The public, his fans, were unaware because you had to play your part in the media. Look successful, walk successful, dress and talk successful, and sell the work. Sell. The. Book. Man, that got banged in your head once you had that miraculous deal.

“You get the big money when the second sells well,” Morris had told him. William bet he’d never have guessed it would sit on the shelves as if super-glued.

“Plus movie rights are valuable,” his agent added, the said rights sold for two novels. “When they make the films, the book will sell like crazy. Look at Harry Potter.”

But the films had stalled after the third book died a death. Nobody wanted to dance with a loser. Nobody. That hadn’t happened yet when he sat across from Orelia in the bustling café, the name of which escaped him now. Buttered Toast or Buttered Bread Roll. Something to do with bread. Subliminal sales tactic, he remembered thinking.

She’d chosen the place. In hindsight, he understood in part why she had picked a new café and suburb each time. He still didn’t understand the complete reason, but the pattern matched her random bus travels to donate to homeless folk.

He had hesitated to share his news, starting with the bad. The suggested amendments. Then to cheer her up, he’d tell her Morris wanted to represent her, thought he could do something with her work.

Things went wrong from the moment he opened his mouth. She flinched at the minor advice, and fidgeted and sighed, something she’d never done before with his suggestions. As he continued, he realized they were on different pages. Wildly different chapters even. Instead of understanding how fragile her ego might be—after all he knew how easily criticism had impacted him in the beginning—he thought this was an opportunity to toughen her up.

He might have handled the whole thing much better, but things weren’t going great for him that day. He’d suffered through an unexpected, contentious conversation with Morris in the morning. The publishers hadn’t liked his third novel’s manuscript. Details to come it seemed.

He became annoyed with the process. Cranky like a toddler who’d lost a toy. Didn’t anyone understand the fragility of an author’s ego? He told himself he must take it as part of the game. If he must, he’d thought, so should Orelia. In fact, she had no standing yet, so what was with the quibbling? Yes, he’d advised her to fight for her manuscript, but not at this stage of her career.

“I don’t get it,” she’d said, through pouting lips, one brow raised in rebellion against the other. “They want my main character to be changed to male? That makes no sense. You told me you had good news. That’s not good news. I’m happy they’re interested but they’re nuts. Fight for my beliefs, you said. Why are you now urging me to do this?”

Her focus on the negative and not the thrilling news that a publisher might sign her, rankled him, got right under his skin and twisted and turned. He should have ignored the comments, her attitude, her extreme ungratefulness. She was new to this. He was the experienced author accustomed to the vagaries of editors and the publishing world.