William never pinpointed the moment he changed his mind. Maybe because he hadn’t really been serious. In one minute, murder floated through his mind, and in the next he’d become horrified to even think such a thing. For the entire day at the Walter Bridge Literary Festival, he’d sworn nothing would stop him. Deep down though he knew all the stars would need to align if anything was to happen.

He snuck in and secreted himself toward the back of the How to make it in publishing the easy way panel discussion. He didn’t need to look at the panelists to know he wouldn’t like them or care diddly about their advice on the industry. How ridiculous to say anything to do with this business was simple. He was living proof that despite talent, a fan base and success, you could still lose everything.

William knew why they titled the event as such. The festival organizers understood if they put easy and publishing in the same sentence, it guaranteed wannabe writers would arrive in droves.

For the panelists this meant money for nothing more than gossiping before an audience; an open bar at night; and complimentary luxury accommodations. If they had novels, then add the sales of those as a bonus.

He recognized Lorelai Smith up there. She was one of the acquisition editors from Harper Collins Publishing, the second largest publisher in the world.

Morris and he had enjoyed lunch with her once when Harper Collins had expressed an interest in a future book. Nothing came of the discussion and looking back William believed his ex-agent was to blame. His theory was that the traitor had instead pushed Orelia’s genre trash. Even though she went with an alternative publisher, that’s how bidding wars began.

Let the editors fall in love with the story, then the author and, when they’re on the line, dangle the offer around elsewhere. Publishers would often bid high, not because they believed they’d make money from the deal, but so others couldn’t secure the book or its author. A game of silly chess played with writers’ careers.

William had feared someone from the industry might recognize him today. With one glance in the bathroom mirror this morning he knew there was no chance of that. He would have to agree with Orelia’s observations of his weight loss. Unbeknown to him, he had let himself go a little.

His hair, going on four months’ ungroomed, sprouted from his head, wild and kinked. Not in a good way, like Johnny Depp or Mark Wahlberg, or those photo-shopped images on the covers of the porno-romance novels. No, he looked as though someone had thrown a bucket of jelly over his head and the mess had dried in horrible clumps.

He was a writer, so he didn’t check his appearance often. Only for publicity photo shoots, appearances and publishing parties would he make somewhat of an effort. All these had dissipated along with his sales, so looking in the mirror had become a thing of the past.