She looked into her wine glass and tried to ignore the small pieces of cork floating in the red liquid. "So, do you have any thoughts on the subject?" She asked him.

"Kind of." Derick replied. "I know what I should do, but what I want to do seems out of my reach."

"Oh yeah? What do you want to do?" Maria asked, swishing the wine around in her glass.

Derick took a sip of his Merlot. "I want to write a book."

Maria laughed. "A book? How did you come up with this spurt of spontaneity?"

"I was reading an article in the New York Times, and noticed that it was very well written, and it didn't look that difficult. If others can make a living at it, why can't I?"

"Simple. Those people have got college degrees in it. You don't even have a high school diploma!" Maria, a senior editor at a prestigious New York publishing house, smiled. "Do you know how much time and effort goes into writing even a two page piece? Never mind a novel!"

"Yeah, what about it? Damn it, Maria, I'm sick of working the night shift at the factory. Can't you pull some strings?"

"You'd have to write something before I can pull anything. Any ideas?"

"Religion."

"Excuse me?"

"Religion. I want to write a religious book." Derick explained.

Maria shook her head. "It's unlikely to be published, even if you did finish it. Too controversial. Only seasoned writers can pull off something like that, and sometimes not even them."

Derick's jaw was set. "I can make it happen."

"Go ahead. But don't be surprised if you're disappointed. I'll help you wherever I can. Consider yourself warned."

"Why? Don't you think I can do it?" Derick asked defensively.

"Do you want my honest opinion?"

"Yes."

"Don't quit your job at the factory."

* * *

Derick sat in the rain on the front stoop of his apartment building, his manuscript in hand. The rain drops were quickly wetting the page, turning the printed words into a pool of ink. He had sent it to three different publishers, two literary agents. No one wanted it. He flipped through the pages, watching as his hard work, his time, his tears, washed away. "This is bullshit."

A black Cadillac pulled up to the curb on the street, stopping in front of the building. Derick tried to look past the tinted windows, tried to see the driver. The passenger's side window rolled down, revealing only blackness inside the car.




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