* The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? Well. This is a little snippet where he meets with his agent.
Author's note: this story is set somewhere just before the year 2000, in my favorite place in the world: San Francisco.
~~~
I do what I do because something in me compels me to do so. It's like breathing: if I stop doing it, I'd suffocate. But at the same time, I understand that without some commercial success, when I die, so do my words.Jennifer is my agent because she understands this.
Never-the-less, her blunt approach to business can be a little off-putting. I'm seated in one of the purposely oversized, low-to-the-ground black suede chairs that she has set in direct opposition of her monolithic, solid oak desk. In the ambient light, bleeding through her sheer, rose colored drapes, it gleams like obsidian. Her ultra-plush, deep crimson carpet pools around the soles of my boots, making me feel the way I would if I were a guest of Elizabeth Báthory: history's 'Blood Queen' – intensely creeped out and yet, oddly comforted.
“Daemon, I don't know what to tell you.” She makes her way to the front of the desk and leans against it, crossing her feet, her arms. From my vantage point, sunk comically into my seat, she is like a well tailored amazon. Her black silk skirt suit, with its crisp lines, daring hem and clingy, low swooping scarlet blouse straddles the line between conservative elegance and provocative mischief.
“You're not a sell out, remember? 'I’m an artist'” she says, making air quotes. Her shoulder-length, auburn hair dances around her head like a brushfire. “I get that.”
Having to look up to make eye contact is a novel experience for me... It makes me feel like a little kid again.
“Really. In the two years I've been hustling your book, I've read it like eight times.”
Every available inch of wall space is neatly lined, in chronological order, with signed copies of every book she's ever gotten published. Behind her, the wall of glass that serves as her window, frames a perfect postcard snapshot of the city's skyline. She crosses her feet the other way, her four inch pumps pointy and metallic.
“I love it!” She leans in with her arms open in a wide 'Ta-Da' gesture as though at any moment she will pick me up and twirl me around the room. Strangely, I don't think I'd mind that.
“It has all the markings of a true classic, Daemon; gorgeous settings, heartbreak, romance... the 'human struggle'... it's honest and it's real. Really, real.” Now she's crouching, a hand braced on each knee, so she can look me in the eye.
“But that's not what sells and the publishers know that.” She walks to a bookcase and like a game show spokesmodel, motions to her successes. “This is what sells.” She grabs a book off the shelf and shakes it at me like she's quoting scripture; “Vampire fucking. Whiny little tween cunts desperately seeking the affections of some moody, unattainable douche bag with a six pack and a dark side.” She tosses the book onto her desk with a FWAPP! “That and twinky little wizards.” She laughs, then. “Write me something like that and I can guarantee you a movie franchise.” She scans my face, looking for a reaction. “No?”
“No...” I struggle in my seat, maneuvering to the edge. “Goddammit, Jen... I don't care about money... this is just...” my last chance? my dream?? the summation of my entire life's existence??? “…really important to me.” She's reached behind her desk to produce a crystal pitcher of water and two glasses, which she fills. “How could they turn you down?” I moan, “You said we had it.”
“No, I said we MIGHT have it.” She hands me a drink. “Literary fiction is a hard sell. BUT.” She sips at her glass. “They do see your works' potential for longevity.”
“So... what you're telling me is... maybe?” Maybe my shit-ass life will finally have some validation?
She shrugs. “Maybe.” She takes my glass – still full, and sets it back on the desk. “And 'maybe' is a helluva lot better than most people get these days.” I slump back, letting the chair fold in around me.
“Like I said,” she continues, “if you want fame and acclaim, write something they can talk about on those morning talk shows. We'll set up book tours, lectures... Then? Cash out. Buy a small island, retire early and spend your remaining days creating work that'll appeal to less than one percent of literate America.”
“And if I don't want to do that?”
She's crossed her way back to the front of the desk and is sitting on its edge. “Keep doing what you're doing. We'll get them, eventually. You'll tour, sell a respectable number of books, get a nod from academia – possibly even an art film or a Pulitzer.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You just have to wait a little longer, okay? Let me do my job.”
“Okay,” I say with a heavy sigh. “I'll wait. But you're buying me lunch.” She's smiling and helping me out of the chair saying; “Of course,” when I suddenly notice {DEATH} seated crosslegged in the far corner, on the floor – reading my manuscript. Her pale kimono is tucked beneath her, her charcoal hair hangs low and stick straight, obscuring her face. An insane thought flicks across my mind;
Does she like it?
...
