I was told that when I was finished my novel, publishers would be coming out of the woodwork.
I dreamed of publishers, crawling out of the walls… my dresser… the floorboards, reaching for me through the darkness…
I’d wake up screaming, thrashing about.
That’s how the accident happened.
My wife tried to wake me up, and I knocked her down, head hitting the lamp…
The trial was a circus, and I ended up with a 20 year sentence.
I finished my novel in prison.
Publishers aren’t coming out of the woodwork for it.
Good. At least I can sleep now.