Something was wrong with his skin too. The color was unripened-corn sallow and his cheeks protruded, like little plums had embedded beneath the surface.

He pushed his fingers through the mass of tangles and tried to neaten the mop. Then he stopped, because in a flash of genius he didn’t see an unkempt man, but rather a perfect disguise. So he used his palm to smooth over the fringe and he rubbed so that the hair knotted even more and flattened to cover his eyes.

Faded jeans and a shapeless t-shirt completed the persona. Not because this increased his disheveled appearance but because he’d blend better. In the good old days when he would guest speak at these festivals, he’d found it amusing that the would-be-scribes attired themselves as they imagined authors dressed—in what he called comfortable clothes.

A correct assumption, but William had always thought you should earn the right to look like an author. Few attending how-to workshops would become the professional creatures to which they aspired.

Once he arrived he hurried to the workshop tent, comfortable he was just part of the throng. Inside, he dodged and side-slipped his way through the milling crowd of over two hundred, looking for a seat. He grew more confident of his invisibility, becoming as unseen as those around him were to the publishing world.

William found the perfect position where he could hide in plain sight, near the middle, twenty rows from the stage. He pulled out his notebook and pretended to be studying the contents, hoping his neighbors wouldn’t bother to speak to him. The last thing he wanted to discuss was somebody’s dream of becoming a best-selling author. Get in the short line, he’d be tempted to reply. Short, because it leads over a cliff where you’ll dive to your death.

A wave of hush traveled through the tent as the host speaker bounced onto the stage. She was a blogger with enormous enthusiasm and a chest just as large, which her shirt did nothing to conceal. Easy to see how she got her likes on Facebook.

She wasn’t a writer. Writers did not behave that way. They carried themselves with solemn intelligence and artists’ introspect. Not bouncing around as though they were attending a block party.

The so-called popular influencer, Cassie-something, introduced a male author—rat nosed and balding—of whom he’d never heard. Whoever he was, he managed to drop the title of his book, Bursting Balloons, into his thirty-minute talk at least two dozen times. William counted to eighteen in twenty minutes, and then grew tired and gave up, his case proven. Rat nose, so filled with his own importance, was dull.

Two more bores droned about what fantastic and exciting opportunities existed in publishing until the man he’d been awaiting stepped on the stage. Morris Usher. His name on the program was the reason he had come.

The entire crowd hushed as if the Pope had walked across the stage to sit in the large lounge chair ready for his interview. Oh yes, agents were the shiny goal for all writer-lemming-hopefuls. Without an agent, you weren’t getting that contract or the nice advance, and your book would not be gracing bookstore shelves. What they didn’t understand was that these days you received only the one shot. Make low sales and you were on your own again. He was living proof of the three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule.