Wrote memoir. Publisher: 'Your life isn't interesting enough.'
Became a hitman. Now it's interesting.
Kidding. Just a barista. But I think about it. While making your latte.
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Author bio needed. '(Name) lives with two cats and regret.' Publisher: 'Maybe something happier?' Fine. 'Three cats.'
Fan mail received. First ever. 'Your book changed my life.' Hands trembling. Opened envelope. 50% off coupon for Domino's. Framed it anyway.
My protagonist discovers ancient secret on page 47. I don't remember writing page 47. Checked draft. Page 47 blank. Checked published book. Page 47 filled. Different handwriting.
Wrote plot twist. Wife guessed it. Rewrote twist. Wife guessed it again. Third twist. Wife: "It's the butler, isn't it?" There's no butler in my book. Added butler. He did it.
Cat sat on keyboard. Gibberish paragraph. Left it in. Best reviews I've ever gotten. "Experimental prose!" "Bold stylistic choice!" "Innovative narrative structure!" Cat now has an agent. I don't.
Book signing. Line of three people. Fan approaches. Trembling with excitement. "I loved the death scene!" "Thank you. Which one?" "Chapter 12. When Sarah—" "Nobody dies in my book." Fan's smile: frozen. "Sarah doesn't die?" "Sarah doesn't exist." Fan clutches a different book. Not mine. Same cover. Almost same cover.