A week later, Lawrence provided the printed copy of the manuscript to me. Hand-written remarks littered it from beginning to end. I flipped through the pages of red penciled notes, scanning them lightly before turning to the next page.

“What’d you think?” I asked.

“I’m reluctant to tell you the truth,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because, I’ve got fifty unfinished manuscripts littering the floor of my apartment.”

“Really?”

“No differently than the plumber that has the leak, or the contractor that has the home in need of repair, I’m the editor that can’t seem to write a complete manuscript.”

“So, what’d you think?” I asked again.

“The story is fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. It sends a great message, is fast-paced, and kept my interest throughout. I don’t know who you think your audience is, but it has quite a bit of cussing.”

“The Fat Kid’s got a mouth on him, doesn’t he?”

He chuckled. “He sure does.”

“So, you liked it?”

“I loved it. You’re one hell of a storyteller. Your writing needs some work, though. You do have great style and prose, for what that’s worth.”

“Where do I go from here? After I get these corrections made?”

“I’ve got a friend in New York that’s a literary agent. I could send it to her if you’d like.”

My heart skipped a beat. It was exactly the break that I needed. “Would you do that?”

“Sure.”

A week later, two rounds of edits were completed. The manuscript was then sent off to his friend. I waited with baited breath to hear what she had to say.

Two weeks later, she called.

“The book doesn’t really fall into YA, and it’s definitely not mid-grade fiction,” she said. “Your protagonists are between sixteen and seventeen, but there’s too much cussing. It might be able to be marketed as NA, but the NA audience isn’t going to like the subject matter. It’s too juvenile.”

“What’s NA?”

She chuckled. “New Adult. The protagonists are between the ages of eighteen and thirty.”

“And YA must be young adult?”

“Yes.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“For me? It’s not marketable. You can self-publish it. It’s a great story, it’s just not marketable to a major publisher.”

“What can I do differently next time?”

“Well, that’s why I called. Have you ever written a romance novel?”

“I’ve never written an anything novel. The manuscript you have is my first stab at this.”

“Impressive,” she said. “I want you to write a romance novel for adults.”

I chuckled. “I’m a tattooed biker who’s been to prison. Romance? Really?”

“You have an uncanny ability to shove your ideas down the readers throat and make them like it. That talent can’t be taught. Your style and prose scream romance. My guess is if you write an adult romance, it could be a bestseller.”

“A bestseller?”

“I think that’s a realistic possibility.”

“I’ll write one, then.”

“Send it to me when you do.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Scott. It was a pleasure talking to you.”

“Likewise.”

Disappointed about my manuscript not being marketable, but eager to begin my romance venture, I self-published Broken People.

As soon as the book was made available on Amazon, I called my father. For as long as I could remember, he had a book in his hands. He read two or three books a week, not favoring any one subgenre.

He simply loved the escape reading provided him. My guess was that it was comparable to what riding the motorcycle gave me.

He eagerly agreed to read it.

I let the men in the motorcycle club know of the book’s release, but very few of them read books, and none of them read on Kindle, which was the only way the book was available at the time.

The next afternoon, I called to see how my father was coming along. Personally, I loved the book, but I realized my opinion was prejudiced. I wanted my father’s view, because I knew he wouldn’t sugar coat the truth.

“Can I talk to Pop?” I asked.

“He’s busy, Honey,” my mother replied.

“Put him on the phone, Mom.”

“Honey, he’s tied up. He said not to bother him.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s finishing your book.”

“What’s he think of it?” I asked excitedly.

“I’ll let him tell you when he’s done.”

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“He told me not to, Honey.”

I forced a sigh. “Whatever.”

“Wait a minute, it looks like he’s done.”

I could hear her walking through the house. “It’s Scott,” she said. “He’s calling about the book.”

She fumbled to cover the mouthpiece. After a moment, she got back on the phone. “He’ll call you back in a little bit.”

“Put him on the phone, Mother.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “He’s crying.”

My father was the toughest man I’d ever met. I’d stood up to any man who ever opposed me, and I couldn’t imagine standing up to him. To think that the book I’d written could cause him to cry satisfied me and bothered me both.

“Have him call when he can,” I said.

Thirty minutes later, my father called. “I’m proud of you, Son,” he said as soon as I answered.

“Thanks, Pop. Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

“Really?”

“It was a great book. One of the better stories I’ve ever read. Damned good piece of literature.”

“Really?” I asked excitedly. “You’re not just saying that?”

“I might be slightly biased, but it’s a damned fine book, Son. Damned fine. I laughed till I damned near peed, you had me flipping pages to find out what happened to that girl, and there wasn’t one place where I wanted to skim through what you’d written. All in all, it was a great piece of work. Brought a tear to my eye in the end. Maybe in the middle, too.”

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Don’t be. Any book that can bring that kind of emotion out in a man like me earns it. I’m excited for you, Son.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I know you’ve found your calling.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. Now get your nose to the grindstone and get to work. Damned books aren’t going to write themselves.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“Talk to you soon.”

The book received immediate praise from family members, other authors, and readers. One reader, an award-winning author from India, praised the book, stating that it prevented him from committing suicide.

Elated at the comment, I sent Jessica a text message. At the time, I hadn’t made any effort to communicate with her in over a year.

Hope you’re doing well. I wrote a book. Just thought I’d let you know.

She responded immediately.

I asked that you leave me alone. I’m in a relationship. Please respect me by not contacting me again.

The cloud I was floating upon crashed back down to earth.

Some things, I decided, were simply not meant to be.