“Self-hypnosis,” Stephen King called the process.

The Master of Horror had entered his dreams occasionally, handing William an award and inviting him to join his rock band of household-name authors. Yes, he could see himself and Stevie becoming good buds, sharing writing war stories and interviewing each other at university library fundraisers. Once he was back on his feet, he’d contact the great man. Someone in publishing would know someone.

For now though, he had the TV for company (no man’s an island). He wasn’t watching when he heard the words that made him choke on his toast.

“I’m living the dream,” the voice said.

His throat reflexed with a surprise cough causing a masticated lump of crust to fly from his mouth and land in his coffee. He considered the black liquid. Disgusting.

More disgusting was who spoke. He recognized her, would recognize the words, the tone, anywhere.

It was she.

Her.

Pixie-hair.

Evil creature of downfall and doom.

On his television.

On that program with the toothy host who reminded him of the sixties TV show talking horse Ed or Ted.

A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no-one can talk to a talking horse. That is of course, unless the horse is the blonde-haired, smiling clone sitting with Orelia Mason, the Queen of the worst, of course, of course.

She looked radiant.

Admitting this made him cringe.

He had hoped if he ever saw her again she would have wasted away from the pressure of the success and demands on her time. Since the moment he’d seen the article on her nomination for the National Book Award, he tried to avoid anything related to her.

This was real progress for William. At first, after reading of her good fortune, he took to watching YouTube videos of her at author conferences and giving interviews on shows. He’d hoped to hear her mention him. When he realized that in the dozen videos he’d watched there wasn’t a single reference to him, he had forced himself to steer away from the torture.

As if withdrawing from a drug, he fought the strong urge to scour iTunes and the Net for new additions. After a week or so he felt proud of himself that the addiction seemed to lessen each day.

William rose from his chair and walked toward the image of a relaxed-as-can-be, smiling Orelia sitting on the set-sofa. In his opinion, she was a trained puppet, wound up to be bright and breezy as she told the same funny anecdotes he’d seen on the YouTube videos.

She looked poised.

She looked happy.

She looked successful.

She talked and nodded and smiled.

Smiling. Smiling.

Smiling in that way, which made William want to put the glob of toast back in his mouth and spit the muck at the screen.

“New book.”

“Rave reviews.”

“Seven-figure deal for the next three novels.”

“Film rights sold to Twentieth Century Fox.”

Oh God, a movie deal, no.

The interviewer oohed and aahed as if Orelia had invented a cure for cancer