He wondered if the author truly was glad.
I’ve enclosed a few items I thought you might like. I’d love for you to be part of my street team, spreading the word about
my books.
“Street team?” he asked out loud. “Street team?” He cursed and tightened the letter in his hand.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?”
He glanced at the silly person dressed in a silly outfit and clenched his teeth, shaking his head. She quickly got the message
and left him alone. He kept reading.
Here are some autographed bookplates along with a bookmark and sticker for
Breathe
. The marketing department does a great job on these things!
The bookplates were square, colored strips with the author’s signature on them. But a bookplate with a signature did not equate
to a signed book. A signed book meant you met the author, meant you
spoke
to the author, meant the author had some idea you were alive. The sticker had the cover of
Breathe
on it with additional gratuitous splashes of blood, along with the author’s Web site address. The bookmark was cheap and
flimsy. Cillian would never use it.
Sign up for my regular newsletter and stay tuned for details related to my novels. As always, thanks for your interest! Keep
in touch.
And then signed (but signed by whom was the question) at the bottom:
Dennis Shore
His hands balled up the letter, then let it go.
He left the post office with the wrinkled letter, the book plates, and the sticker all sitting on the table.
He didn’t want to have anything to do with them, or Dennis Shore, ever again.
Discoveries in the Dark
1.
I’m finished.
He wished he was finished with One of These Days, the tentative title for his current work in progress. But the title wasn’t
the only thing tentative in his novel. Everything was tentative—the words, the characters, the story.… So tentative, in fact,
that he hadn’t even started.
Dennis Shore, bestselling novelist soon to have the number-one selling book in the country, was lost for words. And he hadn’t
been able to find them in some time.
He just got back from New York last night. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was late. After going through e-mail and
voice mail and reading through his favorite Web sites and blogs, Dennis tried to write. But he wasn’t sure what to write about.
He had vague ideas, but they all seemed so random.
“It’s about a man with a dark secret.”
Yet he hadn’t met the man, nor did he know exactly what shade was his secret.
He had a little over a month to hand the book in.
But the deadline didn’t matter as much as the fallout from his latest novel if anyone found out the truth.
Thinking about it made his head ache, along with his heart.
Empty Spaces
sat on the corner of the massive oak desk in his office, seeming to pulse like a wounded, bleeding animal taking its last
few breaths. The book had never been his and never would be.
He wasn’t sure how everything had gotten this far.
Grief, my man. That’s what grief will do to you. It will make you do things you once thought were unthinkable. And you can
think of everything, can’t you?
Dennis had never thought the words would leave him. But much worse than that, he had never thought Lucy would leave him either.
Lucy encouraged and motivated him and helped him along. And always, always, the writing came. She would give him random ideas
or read bits and pieces and give him glowing affirmation or tell him to change gears and go down another path or try again.
Lucy was his biggest fan and biggest critic. She was also the love of his life whom he had lost to colon cancer on October
30, 2008.
Six months before Lucy passed away, the block started. But of course it did. Because his whole life was suddenly blocked.
There wasn’t a God above to pray to no matter how he wished there was. Not that he wanted help now—no, if there was a God,
he wanted to curse him. But cursing the air did nothing.
He tried to write.
I’ve enclosed a few items I thought you might like. I’d love for you to be part of my street team, spreading the word about
my books.
“Street team?” he asked out loud. “Street team?” He cursed and tightened the letter in his hand.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?”
He glanced at the silly person dressed in a silly outfit and clenched his teeth, shaking his head. She quickly got the message
and left him alone. He kept reading.
Here are some autographed bookplates along with a bookmark and sticker for
Breathe
. The marketing department does a great job on these things!
The bookplates were square, colored strips with the author’s signature on them. But a bookplate with a signature did not equate
to a signed book. A signed book meant you met the author, meant you
spoke
to the author, meant the author had some idea you were alive. The sticker had the cover of
Breathe
on it with additional gratuitous splashes of blood, along with the author’s Web site address. The bookmark was cheap and
flimsy. Cillian would never use it.
Sign up for my regular newsletter and stay tuned for details related to my novels. As always, thanks for your interest! Keep
in touch.
And then signed (but signed by whom was the question) at the bottom:
Dennis Shore
His hands balled up the letter, then let it go.
He left the post office with the wrinkled letter, the book plates, and the sticker all sitting on the table.
He didn’t want to have anything to do with them, or Dennis Shore, ever again.
Discoveries in the Dark
1.
I’m finished.
He wished he was finished with One of These Days, the tentative title for his current work in progress. But the title wasn’t
the only thing tentative in his novel. Everything was tentative—the words, the characters, the story.… So tentative, in fact,
that he hadn’t even started.
Dennis Shore, bestselling novelist soon to have the number-one selling book in the country, was lost for words. And he hadn’t
been able to find them in some time.
He just got back from New York last night. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was late. After going through e-mail and
voice mail and reading through his favorite Web sites and blogs, Dennis tried to write. But he wasn’t sure what to write about.
He had vague ideas, but they all seemed so random.
“It’s about a man with a dark secret.”
Yet he hadn’t met the man, nor did he know exactly what shade was his secret.
He had a little over a month to hand the book in.
But the deadline didn’t matter as much as the fallout from his latest novel if anyone found out the truth.
Thinking about it made his head ache, along with his heart.
Empty Spaces
sat on the corner of the massive oak desk in his office, seeming to pulse like a wounded, bleeding animal taking its last
few breaths. The book had never been his and never would be.
He wasn’t sure how everything had gotten this far.
Grief, my man. That’s what grief will do to you. It will make you do things you once thought were unthinkable. And you can
think of everything, can’t you?
Dennis had never thought the words would leave him. But much worse than that, he had never thought Lucy would leave him either.
Lucy encouraged and motivated him and helped him along. And always, always, the writing came. She would give him random ideas
or read bits and pieces and give him glowing affirmation or tell him to change gears and go down another path or try again.
Lucy was his biggest fan and biggest critic. She was also the love of his life whom he had lost to colon cancer on October
30, 2008.
Six months before Lucy passed away, the block started. But of course it did. Because his whole life was suddenly blocked.
There wasn’t a God above to pray to no matter how he wished there was. Not that he wanted help now—no, if there was a God,
he wanted to curse him. But cursing the air did nothing.
He tried to write.
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