Dave Foster was pulling on his coat, about to leave for another day of nine-to-five drudgery and office politics, when the letter came through his letterbox. It landed on the mat, face up, lying invitingly. The top corner of the white envelope bore the hallmark of Esther Dennis, the latest publisher he’d submitted his novel to.

He had been writing since he was a child, and now, in his thirties, he had three novels, hundreds of short stories, and even a dozen poems, in what he referred to as his back-catalogue. When he had turned thirty he had decided to try and get his work published. Who knew, if he got his work on the right desk, and looked over by the right people, his work might be published, and he might even make some money from his writing.

Right now, that dream was as far away as being a Formula One champion was to a taxi driver. But, maybe, just maybe, the envelope lying there on the mat, was the response that would change his life forever. He was reminded of a film he’d seen as a kid about a chocolate factory that sent out tickets to win the chance of visiting their premises. This envelope could hold his winning ticket.

Dave paused for a moment, standing still, staring down at the envelope like a fortune teller gazing at a fresh palm. Could this be the opportunity he had been working towards? He had been writing all these years for this very moment.

He picked up the envelope and slid a finger along the opening. He took the letter and unfolded it. He read the first line slowly. He swore.

Dear Mr Foster, it is with regret…

Whatever, he growled and left for the office, slamming the door behind him. He drove to work in a haze of misery and self-pity. It felt as though he had reached the end of the line. That last submission had been his last chance to accomplish something with his writing. And he had been rejected. He knew that writing was an art, a craft, that it should be done for the act of creating, for the doing of it, but, surely, every writer’s dream was that their work would be read. And, Dave sensed, that dream had somehow drifted away from him, out of his grasp. He didn’t hanker for a worldwide readership, or literary stardom, but to have a book-deal, a publisher, to have people reading, buying his work, that would have been a reward for the work he had put in all these years.

He trudged across the office, mumbling morning to his colleagues as he went. As he booted-up his computer he sighed to himself. Was this it? Was this how he would spend the next thirty years of his life?

At lunchtime he grabbed his sandwiches and writing magazine and retreated to the staff canteen. With a cup of tea in front of him, at a quiet corner table, Dave munched on his ham sandwiches, and opened the cover of the writing magazine.

The imaginatively titled Writing Magazine was full of hints, tips and inspiration for the aspiring writer. Right now Dave needed all of the above. Perhaps this month’s issue would have an article on how to stay motivated in the face of constant rejection. There were lots of tales of how, those now-famous authors had struggled for years, continued in spite of the rejection, before finally getting the recognition they deserve. Stephen King apparently had a nail hammered in his wall, on which he pinned his rejection letters. After a while, the nail was full and he’d had to hammer in a longer nail. And then he’d hit the big time, stuck pay-dirt as they mining expression went.

As Dave flicked through the glossy pages, he knew the big-time would always elude him. It was a depressing thought. Was there a bleaker thought for the would-be author, than their work not being read? He did enjoy the writing process, but he had always just kind of assumed that some moderate level of success would be his, one day, if he just kept on writing. But now, he realised that it was not to be. Literary success at any level, was just not his fate.

He turned over page after page, successful authors grinned from the photographs and headlines boasted of their achievements. Dave kept flicking through the magazine. He reached the classified advertisements. Most of the small adverts were for writing courses and retreats. Dave shook his head. A writers’ retreat? Why on earth would he spend his free-time with a group of people as gloomy as he was? And, he sensed, these things didn’t come cheap. He sighed. Maybe he needed a break from writing.

The next page had a tiny advert that caught his eye straight away. He stopped browsing the magazine and stared. The words seemed to jump out at him, almost speaking directly to him.

Authors wanted. We are looking to publish first-time authors. Have you got a story for us? Contact Billy Moone Publishing.

Dave swore when he saw the name. Billy Moone. Everyone knew that name. The publishing company were famous for producing the trashiest romance novels. Billy Moone had come to symbolise cheesey romance and were widely ridiculed. If a couple were being very lovey-dovey, they were inevitably compared to something from a Billy Moone novel.

Dave laughed to himself. As if he would lower himself to write such guff. He tutted at the very thought and flicked the page.

He was driving home from work, crawling through the usual traffic, when the thought occurred to him. Why not? the voice whispered. Dave knew exactly what they were talking about. Billy Moone were a publisher looking for new talent, and he was a writer. No. He shook his head. He was a writer with integrity. There was no way he would taint the gift he had by writing awful romance stories that he didn’t believe in. He didn’t even watch romantic comedy films. He had no interest in it whatsoever.

The next morning, as he stepped out of the shower and tied a towel around his waist, the question nagged at him once again. Should he go for it? Would being a published author, albeit in a genre he detested, be more satisfying than being the struggling artist with a day-job he hated? He was still thinking things over as he left for work. It was a quandary alright. Would the pros outweigh the cons? He would technically be a paid author, he would be earning something for his writing, no matter how small. But he would be selling his soul and writing trash that he, himself, would not read. Mind you, he thought, doesn’t every published author sell-out to a certain extent? He could think of fifty authors who had been regurgitating the same cop thriller story since the Nineteen Nineties. Those books were so painfully predictable. Would being contracted to write endless police procedural books, with the inevitable opening scene of a dead body being discovered, be any more shameful than writing for the famous romance publishing house? Maybe not. maybe it was exactly the same thing.

All that day, as he went through the mundane office work, as usual, at the back of his mind was the advert from the publishers. Authors wanted. As he replied to emails from customers, and arranged deliveries, he went over and over his dilemma. He was a writer, they were looking for writers. He wanted to be published, and they wanted books to print. Was it, to use an American phrase he hated, a no-brainer? But it wasn’t in a genre he was interested in. Did that matter? Should he let that one issue put him off?

He still had no answer as he made himself a cup of tea at three o’clock. Was it simply a matter of swallowing his pride? What was the point in being a starving, struggling author, when, if he tweaked his work, he could be published, could be read, and even paid for his writing? But, he sighed as he went back to his desk, it was romance fiction they wanted. He wasn’t even sure he could write that kind of thing. Aye, he chunnered, there’s the rub.

That evening around midnight, he lay in his dark bedroom unable to sleep. He stared at the ceiling, cursing his quandary. A motorbike roared down the street outside and off into the night. Dave swore out loud. If this decision was torturing him so much then that could only mean one thing. He sat upright with a start, as though waking from an awful nightmare. There was one thing on his mind. He should do it.

He woke the next morning with an excitement, an anticipation burning inside him. Having made his decision, he felt as if this was literally a new chapter for him and his writing. When he arrived at the office, he popped to the office kitchen and made himself a quick cup of tea. He booted up his computer. Ignoring the messages in his mailbox, he went onto the internet and searched for the Billy Moone website.

The publisher’s name was splashed on the top of the screen in swirly white lettering. The rest of the screen glowed a deep shade of pink. For him, the most seductive thing on screen was the icon marked Write for us.

Quite unsure what he was getting himself into, he clicked on the icon. Think you have what it takes to join our team of talented writers? He read the page with interest. They were always on the look-out for new writing talent. Dave chewed on his thumbnail, he hoped that was what he was, this fresh talent. The first thing the publisher wanted was an example of his writing. This example, he read on, was to be emailed to them. If your writing was found to be of a high enough standard, then the Billy Moone staff would be in touch to take things further. He had to admit he was slightly disappointed. He was a writer, they needed authors, surely it was that simple. He hadn’t expected the romance publishers to have a vetting procedure and standards for the aspiring authors to meet. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought. Right then, he grumbled, I’ll give you an example of my writing alright.

That evening, laptop open on his kitchen table, Dave scrolled down the items in the folder marked Dave’s Stories. Which story would be best to impress the publisher? Nothing he wrote could be considered romance fiction. His stories covered a lot of genres and could be brutal and violent. He tended to write strange tales where anything could happen, from talking dogs to alien invasions. He went through what he called his back-catalogue, searching for a story that would be suitable. If he picked the wrong story then things could be over before they started. He grumbled in frustration as he scrolled through the titles. He had to chose wisely. If he sent them his story about Mabel, a little old lady who was also an assassin, he would be rejected on the spot, regardless of the quality of his writing. He kept searching. Western, no. Cyberpunk, no. Vampire? No, not the way he wrote about the undead. His vampires were monsters not teen heart-throbs.

Yes, that’s the one. This was it. He opened up the word document. The story was about a haunted house. The deceased resident and the latest occupant became close, in a boy-meets-ghoul kind of way. It was as near as he got to a romantic story line.

He attached the document to an email. He typed quickly, excitedly, explaining that he was a writer and would like to be considered for the company. He ended by thanking them for their time and, taking a deep breath, clicked send.

Over the next few days David told himself he’d been right to try with the publishers. He hadn’t lost anything by trying. And judging by the lack of response, it clearly wasn’t meant to be. By the end of the week he had decided to put it down to experience. Another failed attempt at getting somewhere with his writing. There would be other chances, he was sure, and with probably the same lack of success.

When the reply email came in on the Friday lunchtime Dave almost choked on his ham sandwich.

Mr Foster, thank you for your interest. We really enjoyed the short story you very kindly sent, and we think you could be a valuable addition to our team. Mrs Roberts would like to meet you in person. We can then have an informal chat to discuss where we go from here. Please call me on the below mobile number to arrange a suitable date and time. Best regards, Natasha.

The address on the email signature was in York. Dave nodded, a bit of a mooch from Manchester but hopefully it would be worth it. With his heart pounding, Dave ducked out to the stairwell on the far side of the office floor. He was nervous enough about phoning the publisher, without doing it in front of his colleagues. Despite not being quite sure how interested he was in writing for them, he still felt anxious about making the call. It was like phoning a radio station, even if you did not tune in yourself, you still wouldn’t want to come across as an idiot live on air. With a knot in his stomach and staring out the window at the lorries down in the yard to distract himself, he called the number.

‘Good afternoon, Billy Moone Publishing. Natasha speaking.’

‘Oh hi,’ Dave started. ‘My name’s Dave Foster. I sent you a story.’

‘I loved it.’ Natasha said. ‘It had me gripped.’

‘Wow, thank you very much. You said in your email that I should give you a call.’

Natasha explained that the next step would be a face-to-face chat, brief introduction to the editor-in-chief, Mrs Roberts, and a run-through of their specific requirements and what would happen next. There was something about the laid-back way Natasha had that instantly put him at ease. She seemed to tread the line between professionalism and familiarity perfectly. She could tell him how she thoroughly enjoyed his story, and then speak of contracts and percentages. Dave was sure she treated each of her writers as though they were only author on their books.

They arranged that he would see them early the following week for a mid-afternoon meeting. Natasha told him not to worry and that she looked forward to meeting him. Not to worry? How did she know? Maybe part of writing was over-thinking things. He recalled one famous author saying they wrote for the noise in their head. Despite the genre not being quite his preference, he found he was quite nervous about the whole thing.

And so, instead of heading to the office for another day of nine-to-five drudgery, Dave was shaving and dressing in a smart-casual style of jeans and shirt that he hoped said he was serious about writing but that he also had something of a character and personality.

As he stood on the station platform, wind rattling along and making him shiver, he recalled that a famous author, travelling from Manchester by train, had an idea come to her about a boy-wizard. He hoped his journey would prove to be as auspicious.

With the screeching of wheels, the train chugged into the station, and crawled to a stop. Dave pushed his way through the disembarking passengers, adjusting his rucksack on his shoulder, and squeezed down the narrow aisle. He took a seat by the window, tossing his bag onto the seat next to him.

Dave stared out the window as the train pulled away. He was on the York train but he wondered just where this train journey would take him. Fame and fortune? He doubted it. He was still unsure about the genre and quite what he wanted and expected from his venture.

The train made its way out of Manchester, across Lancashire and into Yorkshire. All through the ninety-minute journey, Dave felt like he was in a film. He smiled at the thought. It was a film he would watch. He’d been wondering for years why there was not more films made about writers. Maybe his interest, and his fascination with authors and the writing process, really was a niche market. Maybe he was the only person with this interest.

Indeed, he had chosen to travel to York by train as it seemed to suit the nature of his business. There was something more poetic and romantic about train travel. He watched the countryside and yellow-stone towns sweeping by and let his mind wander the way only a writer does.

The Billy Moone offices were a red brick house tucked down a narrow side street in York city centre. Dave headed down the olde-worlde York streets. Most of the street names ended with gate. Dave recalled reading somewhere that this came from the Norse word gatan meaning street. After the Vikings came and settled clearly they had had an deep influence on the area. As he pushed the buzzer on the door an idea for a story about Vikings in modern-day York came to him. He quickly tapped a note in his mobile phone. He would get round to writing the story at some point in the future, quite when really depended on how the meeting with the publishers went.

A woman in her early thirties with dark hair and glasses appeared in the doorway.

‘Good afternoon,’ she smiled. ‘And you are?’

‘Dave Foster.’

‘Mister Foster, yes, of course. I’m Natasha.’

Natasha showed him down the narrow hallway, the walls lined with framed book covers. Would something he wrote join these frames? Natasha’s office was in what would have been the back bedroom, when the house had been lived in. There was a desk under the large window, filled with an open laptop computer, books, manuscripts and letters.

‘A lot of paper.’ Dave said.

‘We’re always kept busy.’

Natasha waved for him to take a seat. He took the chair in front of the desk while she took the leather-backed chair behind.

‘We often do this over email but I just loved your story. If that’s an inkling of the standard we can expect from you, then I have a really good feeling about this.’

She held his gaze for a long moment, Dave felt his cheeks burning red. Natasha explained about the contract and the figures. Dave nodded, whatever they thought was fine, he decided, nobody else was showing any interest in his work. A bad publishing contract, he figured, was better than no contract at all.

A while later a tall, painfully thin woman appeared in the doorway. She had short hair and a serious, business expression. Dave turned.

‘Anne,’ Natasha said. ‘this is Dave Foster, the writer I was telling you about. Dave, meet Anne, our Editor in chief.’

Dave was about to say how nice it was to meet her when she spoke.

‘Natasha, have you had the draft covers back yet for Once Bitten?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Can you get on it, yeah?’

And like a pantomime villain, Anne swooshed out of the door, closing it firmly behind her. Natasha smiled awkwardly at the abruptness of her colleague. She went into detail about the process of publishing and the workings of the company.

‘We would be looking for a novel, somewhere in the region of fifty to one hundred thousand words. Once submitted we can work on making any changes. We like to work with our writers during editing. I think of it as though we are the record producers and you are the musician.’

‘And this,’ Dave waved a hand. ‘is the recording studio?’

‘Exactly.’ Natasha laughed.

She slid a few paperback books across the table. The garish pink covers bore cheesy titles and dated drawings of rugged men and voluptuous woman with flowing locks of hair. Dave tried not to wince as he inspected the books.

‘Here’s an example of what we’re looking for. Don’t judge it too harshly, we have a dedicated readership who know exactly what they like. Imagine a cop thriller. The reader expects a body, a killer and a cop on the case. Think of it like that.’

Dave was pleased to hear that even those who worked for the firm saw the flaws in the books that they published. It sounded as though they worked hard to give their readers what they wanted. That had to be a good thing, surely.

‘I’m sure I can come up with something.’ Dave said.

‘Perfect.’ she said getting to her feet. ‘I look forward to reading it.’

She shook his hand warmly, before showing him the door.

On the train back to Manchester, Dave flicked through the novels Natasha had given him. Aside from some glaring cliches and predictable coupling up of the main protagonists, the writing was actually rather good. Despite his deep-rooted disdain for the genre, he was impressed and surprised at the quality of the writing and the stories being told.

Reading the books on the train back home he felt like Michael Caine in the opening credits of a 1970s gangster film. In the film Caine headed to Newcastle by train to take care of business. Despite the body-count being considerably less, Dave hoped that his in his meeting with the publishers, that he too had taken care of business.

As he went through the glossy covered romance novels, and the train carriage filled up with passengers, Dave found his choice of reading material was attracting a few funny looks. One woman simply gave him a bemused smile. Two teenager girls openly pointed and laughed. The guy sitting facing him sniggered. He was in his forties and wore an Everton FC football shirt that was stretched tight over his belly.

Finally the train screeched into Manchester Victoria station. Dave tossed the books into his rucksack and got to his feet. He gave the still-smirking football fan a big grin and spoke.

‘You’ll never walk alone, mate!’

He gave him a rude hand gesture and, leaving the football fan cursing, pushed his way through the passengers departing the train with him.

By the time he arrived home he had made two decisions based on the reactions of the passengers on the train at his book choice. He would give writing a romance novel a shot. He would write the best romance story he could, submit it to Natasha at Billy Moone. Who knew, they might even publish what he came up with. People may actually read his work. But he would say nothing to his family and friends. It would be his secret project. He would work on the story in private. He wouldn’t declare his ambitions just yet. When his book was out, if that day ever came, then he would reveal, he hoped, his success in the niche genre. The main thing, obviously, would be that he would be a published author, and be getting paid for his writing. But until that day came, he would work on the book in secret.

He spent every spare moment of the following week reading the romance books. He did not just take in the story, he immersed himself in the genre, studying the novels and their wording, characters, plots and themes. He analysed the works the way literature students study the plays of Shakespeare. As he devoured the work he had at the back of his mind that he would very soon be working on a story of his own.

It was a rain grey Sunday afternoon when Dave sat down at his kitchen table. In front of him was a fresh spiral-bound notepad, a stack of post-it notes, blue biro pens and a cup of strong tea. He chewed on a pen lid and went over what he’d learnt and what he was aiming to write. What exactly should he write about? What did he know about romance? He was single and had been for years. The only women in his life were his relatives, his friends’ sisters and the women at the office. He paused and rubbed his jaw. The office. A classic writing tip was to write what you know. He had been working behind a desk for years. His romance novel should be, of course, set in the office environment. He nodded to himself, yes, the office romance. That was definitely the way to go.

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. And, with the familiar fire that writing always gave him, he reached for his pen.

Over the next few months his thoughts were completely occupied by his work-in-progress. He would make notes on his mobile phone when out with friends or seeing family. He was never off-duty. When anyone asked what he was doing tapping away on his phone he would tell him he was texting a lad from work. At the office he had a couple of notepads stashed in his desk drawer specifically for scribbling down bits of his story or any ideas that came to him. As time went on, slowly, gradually, the novel began to take some kind of shape. What started out as a vague idea about a painfully shy guy who hits it off with a new-starter, began to take on a life almost of it’s own. He tried to steer the plot and keep it within, what he felt were the parameters of the genre. Ideas about vampires, aliens or hauntings were quickly removed from the story.

Words became paragraphs, pages and chapters. When he read his work back, he had to admit, he was quite impressed.

He continued to work in secret. After a while the secrecy part of the task became something he came to enjoy. If he was ever asked what he was writing he would say it was a ghost story. He found that people would ask about his writing but were not always interested in the answer. He had first realised this one Christmas when an aunt had asked about his stories. He had been part-way through explaining when she’d turned to his mother and asked if she was still watching Coronation Street. Since then he tended to keep his writing and his plans to himself. On this current, top-secret project he felt like a spy working on an enemy code.

The more he worked on this project something occurred to him. He really wanted this. He was working hard and was focused entirely on this shot at publishing. He became so immersed on the genre and the writing of his romance novel. The characters became like people he knew. Although not his chosen genre he was starting the see the appeal. He felt like an athlete who had been given a shot at Olympic gold but in a different field that they would have preferred. And on he wrote.

The ideas for other types of stories still came to him. He would get an idea for, say, a haunted caravan park, or a strange dinner party. When these ideas came to him he would grab a different notepad and scribble the gist of the story down and any other details. He would get to those stories at some point in the future. Right now he had more pressing writing to tend to.

One evening, scribbling away furiously, he suddenly, unexpectedly reached the end of the story. That was it. He was done. He had crossed the finish line. He stared down at his handwritten scrawl, the last lines of his novel, and laughed in delight and disbelief. He had done it. He had completed the first draft of his romance novel. Completed it, mate, as the computer game fans said. He carefully gathered together the pages and placed a paperweight on top. He fired off an excited email to Natasha at Billy Moone. Finished the book. Will complete typing and send across as soon as I can.

Minutes later the reply pinged in. Wonderful. Can’t wait to read it. Nx.

By the end of the following week Dave had typed up and tinkered with his office-based romance novel. He was pleased with the work he had produced. As the mailed it across to Natasha he nodded in satisfaction. Not bad for a first attempt, not bad at all.

He spent the next two weeks trying not to think about why he hadn’t heard from Billy Moone. With the rational part of him insisted that they were probably busy with all their other writers and tending to the intricacies of the publishing industry. But a voice whispered that the silence was because they hated his submission. What did he know about romance and that style of fiction? Surely if they liked it then they would have responded by now. He tried to stay calm and resist the temptation to chase them up. He was reminded of a job interview he’d had years ago. The firm, a garage in Trafford Park, had taken weeks to get back to him. Whenever he had called them he’d been told that the manager was busy and that he was to phone back the next day. He had asked his father about it.

‘Should I call them and demand to know one way or another if I have the job?’

‘Yeah, you could do,’ his dad had replied. ‘but they’ll tell you that you’ve not got it.’

It had been a lesson he’d never forgotten. There were times in this life when you just needed to be patient and wait it out.

One morning at work, his mobile phone rang. Dave didn’t recognise the number. As he was in the office he answered with a hushed hello.

‘Good morning, is that Dave Foster?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Hi there, it’s Natasha from Billy Moone. I’m calling regarding your submission.’

Dave nearly fell off his chair. Holding the phone in trembling fingers, Dave tried to remain calm.

‘Oh, you read it then?’

‘I certainly did. It was a great read, to be honest. It’s just what we’re looking for. Ann, our Editor in Chief, was pleasantly surprised too.’

‘So, that means-’

‘We would like you publish your novel, yes.’

Dave did not know what to say. This whole thing felt like a dream. Having been writing for years, and having worked so hard on the novel, with the intention of submitting to Billy Moone, hearing those words seemed like justification of all his efforts.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, but I think I’m in shock.’ he laughed. ‘I can’t believe you actually like it.’

‘It’s a very impressive debut submission. I’m really excited to see where we go from here.’

The meeting was arranged for three days later. Natasha opened the door with a beaming smile. Dave shifted awkwardly on the doorstep, unused to the attention about his writing. He was taken through to the large room at the front of the house. Natasha tapped gently on the door before entering. Anne, the Editor in Chief, was sitting behind a large desk, cluttered with papers. The bay window behind her looked out over the cobbled street. Above the rooftops the impressive spires of York Minster stretched up to the grey skies.

Anne smiled with all the warmth of someone greeting an unwanted door-to-door salesman.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said, waving for him to take a seat. ‘We have drawn up a contract. It’s the standard contract we offer. I can assure you there is nothing sinister in the small print. Its purpose is to protect both our interests.’

Anne coldly slid the document across the desk. As she looked on like a judge eyeing a guilty defendant, Dave read through the clauses on the contract. It did all seem clear and decent enough. The work would remain the properly of the author, who would be shown as the creator of the work, who granted the publisher permission to publish and edit as they saw fit. Dave would be paid an agreed percentage of royalties. Should either party want to terminate the contract then thirty days’ notice must be given.

Natasha hovered at his shoulder. She explained that most of their authors found the contract agreeable. The fact that she referred to him as an author removed any remaining doubts from his mind. There was nobody else showing any interest in his writing. There were no other publishers wanting him to sign on their dotted line.

Feeling like Elvis Presley at Sun Records studio, and trying to savour the moment, Dave picked up the pen and signed the contract.

Anne gave a smile and carefully picked up the document and slid it into a cardboard file.

‘Thank you so much. At the moment we’re looking at around eight-to-ten weeks for our books to go to print. We will be in touch.’

She half-turned and dialled a number quickly on the desk telephone.

‘Charles, hi, it’s Anne over at Billy Moone.’

Natasha tilted her head at the door. They were clearly done with the discussion with Anne.

For the next ten weeks Dave kept himself busy. When he wasn’t working, or socialising with friends, he was writing. He was constantly getting ideas. There were ideas for spooky little stories, Westerns, and also, he was pleased to find, quite a few ideas for romance stories. He kept these ideas separate from the rest. It was as though these were the business side of his writing and the others were for practising his craft.

It was a cold September evening when Dave next walked down the narrow, cobbled York street. He had an excitement in his step. He pushed the buzzer and lingered in the doorway. Natasha opened the door, throwing her hands in the air as though confetti and glitter was showering down on them.

‘I am excited.’ she laughed. ‘Are you excited?’

‘Yes, I am excited.’ said Dave.

Bouncing like a holiday rep on club night, she showed him through to Anne’s office.

‘Congratulations, David.’ said Anne. ‘I’m sure you are as thrilled as we are.’

Dave simply nodded as Anne ran a letter-opener along the top of a large cardboard carton on the desk. Like a magician performing a magic trick she reached inside and produced a paperback book. Dave gasped at seeing his name on the cover. His book. Anne passed him the book. Dave handled the volume as though it was an ancient manuscript. He leafed slowly through the crisp white pages. The words on the page were familiar. They were his words. The cover was bright and quite garish, in keeping with the Billy Moone brand. Dave felt proud of the book they had produced. He had written something and succeeded in having it published. He had a publisher and a contract. As a lifelong writer that was the stuff dreams were made of. That really meant something. And now he had that rarest of treasures, his work in print. Anne’s phone started ringing.

‘I need to get this, but congrats again, David.’

Natasha ushered him out and lead the way back to her office. Dave still held his book.

‘You can keep that.’ she said. ‘Let us know if you need any extra copies for friends and family.’

Dave agreed. That was next. He could now reveal to everyone what he had been working on for so long and show the marvellous results.

‘The book will be on sale in bookshops across the North West and available online on several websites.’ she said.

‘I can’t believe this is really happening.’ Dave said.

‘Buckle up, Dave. I’ve got a really good feeling about this. And Anne,’ she jerked a thumb in the direction of the other office. ‘has been boasting to everyone about her exciting discovery and the novel that is coming out.’

‘Really? I’m shocked.’ said Dave.

‘Underneath the frosty exterior there is a passionate heart.’ Natasha laughed. ‘We are both excited about this release and for the next book, of course.’

‘The next book?’ Dave choked back the lump in his throat.

‘Congratulations, Dave. I’m thrilled for you, just thrilled.’

That evening Dave called on his parents. Once they were seated in the living room with mugs of tea, Dave reached into the rucksack at his feet.

‘I have had a book published.’ he said.

‘Oh my goodness.’ said his mother.

‘Son, that’s fantastic.’ his dad said.

Dave produced the book and handed it to them so they could inspect it more closely. This was such a massive moment. Surely every writer, he figured, does so, at some deep level, for the approval of their parents.

His mother and father stared at the bright pink glossy cover in confusion and disappointment.

‘Is it a romance novel?’

‘Have you really written this? This is your book?’ asked his dad.

‘Yes, I have. They were looking for writers and I wanted to be published so I went for it, and here we are. They say it should do well.’

His parents exchanged awkward glances. His mother handed him back his paperback. Dave felt like a born-again Christian looking for converts, having his pamphlet handed back to him.

‘I can get extra copies, if you like.’ Dave persisted.

‘I’m fine, thanks, not the kind of thing I read.’

‘It’s not really our cup of tea, love.’ said his mother. ‘Your aunt Pauline might be interested. She reads all kinds of rubbish.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m not saying your book is rubbish. I just mean that she will read anything.’

Dave slipped the book back into his bag and got to his feet.

‘I have to get going. I’m meeting the lads in the pub.’

‘You don’t have to rush off.’

‘It’s quiz night. They need me in case any questions come up that aren’t about football or reality TV.’ he laughed.

He pushed his way through the pub crowd and found his mates at a corner table. They were drinking pints of lager and discussing last night’s United result. One lad called out for Steve, who was at the bar, to get Dave a pint. Dave raised a thumb in thanks and dropped onto a bar stool.

The first half of the pub quiz was fun. Dave and the team did well despite one lad insisting that Mozart wrote Verdi’s Requiem.

At the break in the quiz Dave downed his pint and produced his paperback book.

‘Hey lads, I’ve got a book out.’

He handed the book out for the group to inspect. The lads were initially impressed but as they went over the book the mood changed.

‘It’s a romance book. No way! You haven’t written this.’

‘Nah, he’s having us on, definitely a wind up.’

‘It’s true.’ Dave insisted. ‘They were looking for writers so I went for it.’

The lads erupted into sneering derisive laughter.

‘You’ve gone from trying to be Stephen King to being Fifty Shades, mate.’

When one lad started to read aloud lines from his book, and as the others guffawed, Dave had had enough. He snatched his book back.

‘How many novels have you lot had published? At least I’m doing something.’

He stormed out through the double-doors, his friends laughter ringing in his ears. He marched down the street, anger boiling up in him. There was another feeling nagging at him too. Embarrassment.

In the taxi home he wondered if everyone was right. Should he really be wasting his time on writing these romance stories? Was that him? He had thought he was doing the right thing but, if the reactions of those closest to him were anything to go by, he was selling out and should be ashamed of himself. Today should have been a good day, one of celebration, pride and justification. Today should have been the reward for all his hard work. Instead, he had been met with confusion and derision. Maybe his initial reservations had been correct.

When he got home, he tossed the book in the drawer and slammed it shut. He had initially been delighted by the paperback but now it seemed to represent his lack of judgement, a reminder that he had sold himself out.

The next morning as he got ready for work, he was beginning to see things from his parents and friends’ point of view. Who even read romance fiction these days? The world had moved on, times had changed. There was all kinds of literature available these days, so many avenues to explore, genres and sub-genres. The romance novel was so dated, surely. Like the Western, romance fiction was dying out. Should he really be committing himself to this ailing genre of fiction?

He did not want to admit it, but a significant part of his change of heart was because of the negative reaction of those closest to him. He wanted to be proud of his writing, and his achievements. It wasn’t about book-sales or how much money he would make, it was about writing something he could be satisfied with, and that he be proud of.

He decided he was done with this little venture. It was best that he draw a line under the whole thing. He would go to York and explain that, while he really appreciated the interest they had shown, and loved seeing his work in print, however he saw his writing heading in a different direction. He would wish them all the very best for the future, as his writing would be of a completely different genre and style, one that, as yet was unclear to him.

Having arranged a meeting for the Saturday morning, Dave once again stepped off the train at York and headed for the office on the cobbled street. Natasha opened the door with a torn expression on her face. She seemed pleased to see him, as always, but concerned at why their new writer had called this meeting when, while book one started selling, he should have been working on book two.

When they entered her office Anne removed her glasses and placed them down on the documents she’d been going through. She smiled as warmly as she could.

‘Good morning, David. Was there something we can do for you?’

As Dave cleared his throat Natasha leaned against the wall chewing anxiously on a nail and waiting for his response.

Dave explained as well as he could that while he would always be extremely grateful for everything they’d done for him, he did not feel he could produce anything else for them.

‘I just see my writing heading in another direction.’

‘That is a shame.’ Anne said. ‘Let me be frank, your writing is rather extraordinary. You show great promise. Is there anything we can do to change your mind?’

‘I’m afraid not. I am just interested in different things. I’m into science fiction and fantasy, crime thrillers and cyberpunk. I just don’t feel I’m meant for this kind of writing.’

‘Well, I have to respect your honesty and your decision. Good luck for the future.’

They shook hands.

Back on the street outside Natasha shook her head.

‘Please don’t quit. It would be such a shame.’

‘I can’t do this any more.’

‘Why not?’ she asked.

Natasha crossed her arms and shivered on the cold street.

‘It just isn’t my thing. I gave it a shot.’

‘You can be the published author, Dave, just not in your chosen genre. If you stick with it, you could do this full time. That would be better than the office, wouldn’t it?’

Dave said nothing.

‘Or is there another reason? You wouldn’t be the first.’

Dave shrugged.

‘Are you really going to give this up because of what other people think? You were proud of your book, and so you should be.’

‘People were laughing at me.’

‘Who cares? Let them laugh. Do you think my friends take my work seriously?’

She stepped closer to him.

‘This could be your happy ending.’

‘Life isn’t some romantic tale.’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’

She smiled, her eyes locked on his. Dave sensed there was another reason she didn’t want him to leave the company, a reason much more personal, and feeling as though he was in a romance story of his own, he leaned in and they kissed.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom