Three months quickly passed after the release of Broken People. In that short period of time, two things of significance happened. The first was that I realized I wasn’t going to pay the bills with my income from my first novel. Despite the favorable reviews, sales were dismal, at best.

In eight weeks, I’d made a little over five hundred dollars.

The second thing that happened was that I met someone. A female someone. She was pretty, satisfied with me being financially inept, and was extremely attracted to me. I decided to toss inhibition to the wind and give a relationship a try.

Four weeks later, I learned that she was unhappily married. Her husband worked nights, freeing her up to visit me in the evenings. While I worked during the day, she spent her time with him. Upon learning the truth, I escorted the double-dipper to my door, guided her through it, and locked it behind her.

It was all the confirmation I needed. Women, in their entirety, were evil.

I sat on the other side of that locked door for two months, writing my first romance novel. The book’s Hero, a man named Erik Ead, was modeled after me. The heroine, Kelli Parks, was modeled after a woman who I considered to be perfect for him.

Jessica.

I wasn’t sure of Jessica’s preferences in the bedroom, but I did know enough about her to make some educated assumptions. The adult romance industry was all abuzz at the time over EL James’ Fifty Shades of Grey. The book was about a relationship between a Dominant male and a submissive female. Its pages were filled with scenes that included the use of dungeons, paddles, whips, and leather restraints, amongst other things.

I happened to be a Dominant male but had always considered women to be my equal. Whipping, spanking, and depriving women of equality wasn’t something I could ever do. I wasn’t willing to write a book about it, either.

I wrote the book about a man who was Dominant, but treated his respective other with care and admiration, despite her naturally submissive tendencies. Out of the bedroom they were equal. Once inside the bedroom, he was in charge.

Having commitment issues and not trusting women, the book’s Hero didn’t believe in relationships. The heroine was beautiful and playful but didn’t completely trust men. There was a significant age gap between them, with her being younger. Their no-commitment relationship worked well for them. As the book progressed, he became less of an asshole, and she blossomed into the woman he had hoped for.

I left the last chapter of the book up in the air, closing it with a happy-for-now ending. My hope was that if the book succeeded, I would write two or three more, continuing their relationship throughout the series.

As soon as the book was completed, I sent it to the literary agent.

She called the next day. “Holy mother of God,” she said. “You took my breath away.”

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it. The sex was off the charts. The relationship arc was perfect. The only problem is this: your Hero is a dick.”

“I know. But by book three, he’ll be better. His character arc is slow. You see, he’s--”

“You’ve got to change it. Soften him up. If you do, I can guarantee you I’ll get an offer from my connections at Random House.”

Most people in my shoes would have eagerly made the changes. I, however, wasn’t most people.

“I’ve got to keep it the way it is?” I said.

The phone went silent.

“Michelle?” I asked. “Are you there?”

“What do you mean you’ve got to keep it the way it is?” she asked.

“The book’s written,” I said. “The characters are who they are. I can’t change them. It’d be like rewriting history. That’s already happened.”

“Uhhm, I’ve got a newsflash. It’s fiction.”

“I know. But, in my mind the characters are real.”

“So, you’re not going to change it?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Self-publish it,” she said. “You’ll do well. Write me another. Make sure the Hero isn’t a horse’s ass.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

I self-published Baby Girl. Immediately thereafter, I contacted reviewers on Goodreads, an online book review site and asked them to consider reading it. Several did, and the reviews were mixed. While one reviewer would give a five-star review, the next would either refuse to finish the book, or give it a one-star review.

The huge disparity in rankings created interest. That interest caused people to read it. Most of the readers reviewed it, and their reviews continued to be either in the love category, or in the hate category.

With Baby Girl, it seemed there was no in between.

I watched the book’s ranking climb the charts. The second Saturday night following the book’s Tuesday release, I fell asleep while watching my sales chart on Amazon’s publishing platform. It was too early to tell for sure, but it appeared I may be able to pay a month’s rent with income from the book.

The next morning, the phone’s buzzing woke me. Confused, I picked it up and stared at the screen. My father was an early riser but having him call me at six am was out of the ordinary. His heart was failing, and he’d had no less than four surgeries to repair it. In the end, they gave him a defibrillator and wished him the best.

Assuming the worst, I answered the phone.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“On what?”

“Writing a bestseller,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Your smut,” he said. “It’s number one.”

I leaped from the bed. “What?”

“It’s the number one bestselling Erotic Romance novel. It’s number one in a few other categories, too.”

“No shit?’

“I shit you not.”

“Holy crap,” I exclaimed.

“I’d second that,” he said with a laugh. “Looks like you found your niche.”

“I don’t even…I don’t…” I was so excited I was at a loss for words. After fumbling mentally for a moment, I continued. “Thanks for calling.”

“Yeah, big shot like you probably needs to call his manager or agent or something, huh?”

“Whatever,” I said with a laugh. “Last night it looked like I might be able to pay a month’s rent. Teddy bought me another case of Ramen noodles. I’m good for a month, but I won’t get the income from this one for another two months. It’s not what you think.”

“I’m just shittin’ ya,” he said. “I’m sure proud of you, though.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“I want to read this one, too.”

“Don’t!” I screeched.

“Why not?”

The book contained sexual elements I wasn’t completely comfortable having my father read. The thought of him believing for one minute that Erik Ead was a resemblance of me made me extremely nervous.

“I’d just prefer you don’t read this one. Can you not?”

“Is it important to you that I don’t?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. It’s just. It’s. It’s different. It’s basically porn without pictures.”

“There’s no story to it?”

“There’s a story, but it’s mostly sex.”

“I’ll leave it alone, then.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, mister author, I’ve got shit to do. Can’t sit here and chew the fat all day. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, Pop.”

After hanging up, I searched for my book on Amazon. Just as my father said, it was ranked number one in several categories, including Erotic Romance. At that moment, at least, my book was outselling Fifty Shades of Grey.

I quickly went to my Amazon publishing page to check my income.

I’d made enough to pay a month’s rent, and to give Teddy back a good portion of the rent he’d paid for me. I was far from out of the doghouse, but I was undoubtedly making strides in the right direction.

I hadn’t left my house in two months. My only option for food was Ramen noodles. I ate them for breakfast and dinner, skipping lunch on most days. My books were being published in my building’s lobby, using their internet service to submit them. I was living the life of a hermit, surviving on one-tenth of my previous income, no longer owned a car, and didn’t have a motorcycle for the first time in my adult life. If I needed to go anywhere, I had to walk.

Yet.

I was filled with gratitude.