Steven Womack - By Blood Written

He looked nervous and, Taylor thought, a bit like a frustrated graduate student. There was something about him, though, that Taylor found almost boyish. She invited him back to her office, where she apologized for inconveniencing him and explained that Ms. Delaney had suddenly been tied up in conference and would be unable to see him today.

“But how can I help you?” Taylor asked in as polite and professional a tone as she could muster.

For a moment, he sat there staring at her, his dark eyes darting shyly around the room. Taylor found herself wondering how old he was. Finally, he spoke. And as he began his story, Taylor found herself curiously yet cautiously drawn to him, as if somehow an element of fate or destiny had brought them together.

Michael Schiftmann explained to her that he had already published five novels in five years, all of them paperback mysteries. He went on to explain that as an unpublished writer, he had been turned down by every agent he’d queried with the exception of a man who operated out of his home in Lexington, Kentucky. That agent, as it turned out, was a dis-barred lawyer and former concert promoter whose wife was supporting the two of them by working at the local Kmart.

The agent had sold his first novel to the paperback imprint division of a major New York trade house for an advance of thirty-five hundred dollars. At the time, after nearly ten years of collecting rejection slips, Michael Schiftmann had been thrilled to finally break into print. His first novel was well-received and reviewed, even winning a nomination for a mystery award. Michael thought that finally his career was on its way.

But then the offer for his next book came back and he was shocked to find that with all the good reviews and the prize nomination, his first novel had failed to sell out its first printing. Michael’s editor explained that the best he could do was offer another thirty-five hundred.

Shock turning to disappointment, Michael took his agent’s advice and accepted the offer. Over the next four years or so, he went back to contract three more times, for a total of five published books. His latest book had sold for an advance of five thousand dollars. When Michael went back to contract for a sixth book, he told his agent he wanted a hardcover deal and at least a ten-thousand-dollar advance. The agent had laughed over the phone. When the agent came back with an offer of six thousand dollars, still mass-market paperback, Michael fired him on the spot and caught the next bus to Manhattan. Now he was staying in a midtown hotel that ca-tered to budget travelers, eating at hot-dog stands and kiosks, and making the rounds of literary agents all over town.

“So how many have you seen?” Taylor asked.

“You’re the third one today,” he admitted, “and the seven-teenth agent I’ve talked to since I got to town a week ago.”

“Any takers?” Taylor asked.

Michael’s face softened. Relaxed now after telling his story, he smiled at her. He had beautiful teeth, she noticed, and a charming smile. “Not so far,” he admitted.

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of paper, a partial manuscript along with a synopsis as a proposal.

“This is something completely new and different,” he explained. “I’ve spent the last five years writing good books that went nowhere. I learned what made a good mystery, a good crime novel, and I used that to write books that got me great reviews, awards, prizes. Everything a writer could want, except one thing: a living. So I’m breaking molds here, Ms. Robinson. What I’ve got here is the first in a projected series of twenty-six novels, which means if we make this work, we’ve both got job security for the next couple of decades. This is something nobody’s ever seen before. At least not like this …”

He handed her the stack of papers. Taylor read the title page: The First Letter .

“So,” Taylor asked, “what’s the one-sentence pitch?”

Michael looked at her. “In the battle between good and evil,” he said, “evil wins.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Is your series protagonist likable, sympathetic?”

“He’s a brutal, sadistic serial killer,” Michael answered.

“And you’re going to love him.”

Taylor pursed her lips, stared down at the manuscript, and let out a long sigh. “That’s a tall order, Mr. Schiftmann. Usually the bad guy loses and that makes people feel good. Af-firms their moral view of life.”

“This book’s going to change their moral view of life.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Again, tall order.”

“Give it a try,” he said, motioning toward the manuscript.

“It works.”

“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”

Taylor felt the manuscript in her hands, thumbed through the first few pages and saw that it was professionally prepared, that it had the feel of a manuscript done by a pro. You could tell a lot, Taylor knew, about the look of a manuscript.

When a novel came in typed single-spaced on onion-skin paper with handwritten corrections and hand-drawn illus-trations, it was almost always as badly written as it was prepared.

“So tell me, Mr. Schiftmann,” she asked casually. “Where do you want to be as a writer?”

“At the top,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “On The List.”

Neither of them had to elaborate about which list he was referring to. She eyed him for a second. He didn’t appear delusional or crazy, just determined. She wondered if he knew what he was in for. She found herself feeling protective toward him, as if she could somehow shelter him from the price one paid for that kind of success.

“Can you get me there?” he asked. “Can we go there together?”

“That depends,” Taylor said, looking down at the manuscript. “It all depends on the pages.”

“Fair enough,” Michael Schiftmann said. “I’m staying at the Midtown Motor Lodge on Eighth Avenue and Fifty-sixth. I’ve got enough money to stay two more days, and then I’m on the dog back home. I’d sure like to know something before I leave, if that’s possible.”

“And where is home?” Taylor asked.

“Barberton, Ohio,” Michael replied.

“Never heard of it,” Taylor admitted.

“Nobody has. It’s working class, industrial. Close to Cleveland.”

“Oh,” Taylor said.

“Yeah.”

Taylor stood up, offered him her hand. He took it and held it firmly as they shook.

“Mr. Schiftmann, I’ll call you.”

Perhaps it was that Taylor Robinson had only about a dozen clients on her roster, not one of which was actually making a living as a writer. Perhaps it was something in Michael Schiftmann’s eyes or voice or the way he stood or the way he sat that convinced her he was somehow different from the parade of frustrated novelists who moved from agent to agent like hungry wolves roaming an unforgiving landscape. In any case, Taylor spent the rest of the afternoon reading Michael Schiftmann’s book proposal, and after that she called a friend who worked at the publishing house that had published his first five books.

Taylor Robinson learned that Michael Schiftmann’s agent had never pushed for him, had sold him cheaply into a house that was famed for paying little and promoting even less.

His books had languished first in the warehouses, then on the shelves, and finally on the tables containing stacks of remaindered books that were sold practically by the pound in discount stores and buyers’ clubs. The ones that were still lying around after that were pulped, ground back into mash, and recycled for another writer’s words.

Not one of them was still in print. Michael Schiftmann’s career as a writer was history. The nominations and prizes, the reviews and the praise meant nothing. Taylor Robinson was experienced enough to know that there was a lot more to publishing success than writing well and producing good books. But never had she seen a writer more ill-treated.