Cancer took them both. In his mind, the disease was like the yellow Pac-Man, which ran through their veins gobbling up the anger, frustration and hatred in their bodies. Meanwhile, they ran from the ghosts. But outrunning ghosts always ends with them catching you in a corner.

That was years ago, and he was now able to read without hearing the Pac-Man munching tune. Wha-ka, wha-ka, wha-ka. He allowed those yellow munchers to eat his inhibitions and fears until he believed in his future as a novelist.

Funny enough, he imagined they’d be proud of him right now. Proud, not of his success as an author, but of his determination to fight his enemy and her invasion of his world. His father had never taken anything lying down and now neither would William.

After his bellyaching over Orelia and Morris the time had arrived to set the ghosts upon them. To walk the talk. The more Morris’ voiced droned, the louder the squeaky Pac-man sounded in his head.

Wha-ka, wha-ka, wha-ka.

His words blended into each other.

Blady-blady-blah to win a publishing contract.

Blady-blah-blah how to write your submission letter.

Blady-blady-blady-bleh how agents earn their commission.

He wanted to stand up and shout: Nothing. They do diddly squat for their commission. Mother-suckers! But tumultuous applause engulfed the room.

Shimmering rage bubbled inside him, folding in on itself as if the twisting, dark monster came more alive with each passing second. The Pac-Man missed many of those glowing dots so his anger flamed unchecked. He felt a scream build in his throat and suspected if he didn’t get out of there, he would lose all control. And he’d brought a gun.

Had he intended to use it?

Maybe. He sensed an invisible line embedded in his psyche which he struggled to cross. The violence he would perpetrate was only in his imagination. He felt a barrier, possibly built by his mother, which pushed back at him each time he took a step closer to the edge of no return.

At his angriest as a child, his mother would hold a forefinger to his lips, and say, “Shh, walk away.”

He’d done just that; got out of his childhood and the house, alive and functioning, and enjoyed undreamed of success. Right now, if he walked away he could rebuild, couldn’t he? Write another book. Find a new agent. Take pleasure in the process instead of bowing to the pressure of producing some mythical, magical manuscript which might win awards and critics’ acclaim.

“You need luck too. And stamina,” he heard Morris say from the stage. Spoken with such conviction, he’d convince almost anyone.

“Nobody can snap their fingers and make it happen.” His ex-agent snapped his fingers for emphasis.

William had a wow moment with that click. A veil lifted, and the world changed color as if someone turned on a light. He saw clearly, as if the words had been painted on a board, he was as much at fault as anyone. How did he not see that from the start?