“Right, Mike,” Martin began, usi
ng his voice for the first time since we arrived—probably for the first time in over a month. “You haven’t had a drop to drink in the four years we’ve lived together. Don’t pretend like you’re an alcoholic.”
I chuckled. “True, but just wait until I’m successful—when I have those one-and two-star ratings stockpiling. I bet you my first ten grand I’ll be bathing in vodka.”
The four of us finished graduate school the month before, and it was the first time we’d been able to see each other since then. This conference had been planned since the previous semester, but we couldn’t buy our way in. Only a select few—chosen by our Lit professor—were allowed to partake in the four extra tickets he was granted. It was the four of us: Duncan, Jack, Martin, and me—Michael Rourke.
“So how is this going to go down tomorrow?” Duncan asked, changing the subject.
I shrugged. “Beats me. I guess it’s supposed to be like a tradeshow. There will be tables set up with editors, publishers, and agents. At least, that’s what I heard. We’re all in the same boat here, Dunc. None of us have ever been to one of these before.”
“Speak for yourself, Mike,” Jack cut in, smearing back his greasy black hair from his receding hairline with his hand. “Have you forgotten who I am?”
A wave of sighs and subtle eye rolls moved around the table as Jack continued his yammering gloat. “I have an agent already, remember? It’s been nine months since I signed my publishing contract with Phantom House. It was at last year’s National Conference here in Seattle where my Prident agent discovered me.”
In my head I saw him prancing around the room, proudly displaying his colorful feathers. But I’d read his book—a book he swore would make him famous—and to me those feathers were one-dimensional and black and white at best. He was scheduled to release in two weeks. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me for an endorsement.
“Now that is worth drinking to.” I raised my glass again, trying to get him to stop. “We all have celebrating to do here tonight! To the graduating class of 2006! May we all write bestsellers, make our millions, get shagged three times a day for our intelligence, and may our livers fight our inevitable cirrhosis!”
“Hear, hear!” Martin shouted over the crowd, causing a few patron’s heads to turn our way.
The four of us were part of a small clique of literary minds who lived in the same dorm. Some people thought us to be egotistical, elite, and snobbish, but I kind of thought we were all just a bunch of geeks who all had the same passion for words. Not like Dead Poets Society where we’d all stood on our desks and spouted poetry. But we simply enjoyed mulling over the classics and debated what we thought all the Greats were really trying to say.
Jack Moorhouse ran the show. He also ran his mouth, claiming he would be the next great literary genius of a new generation. I don’t doubt that he believed he would be, but he was the kind of guy who felt that using big words and complex phrases was what would win him that prize.
My belief was that the reader didn’t want to have to use a dictionary for every sentence, but that they wanted to be taken on a journey that showed them a life other than their own. We’re fiction writers. If we always got caught up in the thesaurus, our characters’ voices wouldn’t feel real. No one uses words like nidificate or sesquipedalian.
But I was a nobody; my opinion didn’t mean shit. I didn’t have an agent or a contract with one of the Big Five. Maybe Jack was right: people did crave more literary fiction.
Dunc was the tall, skinny friend who never got laid. We gave him a bit of shit for it, but in the end, the man was a saint. Literally. He was set to start seminary school in the fall.
And Martin was the trademarked poet of our club. The only time we could really get him to speak was if we made him drink. Otherwise he’d usually sit silent, scribbling away in his spiral notebook, wearing bright fluorescent yellow tennis shoes.
And me? Well, I’m twenty-three and just got my degree in Journalism at Virginia Tech, and even though I didn’t get the seven internships I applied for—and was still waiting to hear back from one more—I still had a relatively good outlook on my future. Hell, if writing mystery novels wouldn’t pay my bills, I could always blog about the weather.
I just took one day at a time. I moved back in with my mother for the time being, but as soon as I got an agent and my first advance from a publisher, I’d be able to get a small one-bedroom somewhere and live from paycheck to paycheck until I made it big.
“I forgot to tell you!” Dunc opened his satchel and placed a rectangular screen on the table that looked much like a small television or computer.
“What‘s that?” I asked.
“This, my friends, is what they call a Kindle. It’s in beta testing right now. This puppy is going to be sold for four-hundred bucks on Amazonia’s website in a few months. People can read entire books on this thing! And it’s going to revolutionize the business as we know it. I’m really excited,” Duncan said.
“I doubt it.” Jack rolled his eyes. “It’s another electronic hunk of junk that will be useless in less than a year. You can quote me. People are going to stick to hard copies, because there’s comfort in consistency. It’s like how everyone is saying we need to open a Faceplace account because it’s the future of the business,” he scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal.
“No, no, no,” Duncan slurred, obviously reaching his tipping point, where we’d have to covertly pull his beer mug from the table. “I’m telling you, the future is vampires!”
We laughed, having heard that speech before. Duncan was convinced that the formula to writing a bestseller was to carefully entwine an Anne Rice novel with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where a mortal fell in love with a vampire.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to write a romance, Duncan?”
Duncan shriveled into his embarrassment, knowing what we all thought about that genre.
“Again, you’re wrong there, Dunc,” Jack spat. “You might get an agent with your idea, but the masses will never buy a book about teenaged vampires.”
“It’s all in how you…” I trailed off, losing my train of thought when Jack tapped the shoulder of a woman sitting at the table next to us.
Her hair was dark and curly, but with her back was turned to mine I couldn’t see her face. She reached for Jack’s hand and shook it, but again, with the background jabber and laughter, I couldn’t hear their correspondence.