The Ghost and the Author

By Michael Grant

Dan Grier is a serious writer. At least that's what he thought until his debut book tanked. It seems the critics loved it, but, alas, no one thought enough of it to actually buy it. Desperate for money, he turns to the serious writer's version of hell on earth—writing pulp fiction.
With little or no support from his agent or editor, he resigns himself to his fate as a hack writer. But then he's visited by a—ghost? A Muse? Whatever she is, the young feisty Irish woman, born in the seventeenth century and a writer herself, refuses to let him off so easily.
What ensues is a struggle for the writer's answer to the age-old question: Which is more important, literary merit or money?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Grant
• Release date: Jun 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476240138

Michael Grant

Michael Grant is the evil genius of Young Adult Fiction. Among his biggest fans is Stephen King who called the GONE series ‘A driving, torrential narrative’. Michael’s life has been similarly driving and torrential. He’s lived in almost 50 different homes in 14 US states, and moved in with his wife, Katherine Applegate, after knowing her less than 24 hours.

Book preview

The Ghost and the Author

by Elizabeth Grant

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Grant

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

A beam of early morning sunlight poked through the broken venetian blind slats and cast a reproachful shaft of luminosity on an extraordinarily disheveled living room. In one corner, a half-eaten sandwich lay neglected on top of an ancient cathode ray tube TV. In the middle of the room, a ten-speed bicycle doubled as a clothes rack, and on a wall shelf above the TV a bust of Shakespeare sported a well-worn New York Giant’s cap.

A disorderly heap of typed manuscript pages lay sprawled across a battered wood chipped desk that likely had been rescued from a going-out-of-business thrift shop. On the floor surrounding the desk and looking like an origami project gone horribly wrong, were dozens of balled up pieces of paper. Stacked on the desk was an oddly curious collection of reference books on forensic autopsies, serial killers, and deadly poisons of the world.

Just when a disinterested observer might rightly conclude that there was not much in the messy, cramped Greenwich Village apartment to recommend its occupant, the shaft of sunlight settled on a makeshift bookshelf of concrete blocks and two-by-six planks containing a completely out of place collection of books by Proust, Brecht, Dos Passos, Kafka, Tolstoy, Joyce, and Pynchon.

The occupant of this apartment might be a slob, but at least he was a well read slob.

The second room in this Lilliputian apartment was a cramped bedroom containing a rickety bed piled high with a lump of rumpled blankets, which made it impossible to tell if there was a body underneath.

The clock radio on the bedside table read: 7:59 A.M. As it flipped to 8:00 A.M., the radio came to life and a crazed DJ shouted: "Robberies are down, murders are down. Is it gonna be a great day in the Big Apple or what?"

Suddenly, all hell broke loose in the bed. The pile of blankets erupted and a balled fist shot out and thumped the obnoxious DJ into silence. The body connected to the fist fought its way out of the tangled blankets and a man bolted upright in bed. Dan Grier, the apartment’s occupant, could be considered almost good looking—in a bookish sort of way, if you ignored the unruly sandy hair and a bent nose that had been busted twice in an otherwise uneventful career as a high school quarterback.

Dan, glancing at the clock radio in alarm, vaulted out of bed, tucked his laptop under his arm and, like a fullback running for daylight, dashed into the bathroom.

As the bathroom slowly became engulfed in a steam fog, Dan’s monotone voice could be heard over the sound of the shower. "Detective Rick Raven grabs the shirt of the motel clerk, locks his steely grey eyes on the hapless man and whispers in a threatening, guttural tone, ‘What’s the room number, scumbag?’ Pause. No, that sucks. He tried again. ‘The room number or I rip your lips off.’" Yeah!"

Two hands darted out of the shower and quickly typed the dialogue into the laptop perched precariously on the toilet seat.

~~

In the kitchen, Dan set the laptop down on the counter next to an ancient toaster belching black smoke. As he poured a cup coffee, he squinted out the kitchen window at an uninspiring view of clotheslines and brick walls. "Raven slams the gun butt of his Beretta 9 mm into Tony’s face, which already looks like chopped liver... No… An underdone hamburger. Yeah, that’s good." Dan finally noticed the smoking toaster, flipped it upside down and shook loose two incinerated lumps of toast. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he typed the dialogue into his laptop.

After breakfast, he retired to the living room, cleared a space on the cramped desk, and continued to talk and type away furiously. "Lucy looks up into Rick’s eyes. She knows she’s blown her chance for a lasting relationship with this solitary sleuth. Brushing a tear from her mascara-smeared eye, she wails, ‘Well, you got what you wanted. Guys like you always win.’ Raven flicks his Zippo and ignites his illegal Cuban stogie. As he blows a cloud of thick black smoke into her face, he says, ‘In a world of losers, sweetheart, it’s easy to be a winner.’"

Dan hit the print button and bit into a charred piece of toast as he watched the printer begin to spit out pages.

God, that’s awful, he muttered.

~~

It was almost ten-thirty by the time Dan, with the completed manuscript securely tucked under his arm, pushed open the doors of a seedy, rundown office building in lower Manhattan. He got off the rickety elevator on the ninth floor and hurried through a battered metal door marked: SLAUGHTER HOUSE BOOKS, INC. The receptionist, a bored, bottle-blond twentysomething, looked up.

Yeah?

I’m here to see Ethan.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Leach?

Dawn, it’s me. Dan Grier. Don’t you remember me?

Oh, yeah, she said, not remembering him at all. Mr. Leach is taking a meeting. Have a seat.

A hour later, Ethan Leach, a self-important, thirtysomething wearing red suspenders, a pink shirt, black bow tie, and moussed hair, came out of his office carrying a large envelope. Dawn, make sure this gets out in today’s mail.

Dan jumped up. Hey, Ethan, old buddy, he said with forced cheerfulness, I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.

Leach turned in surprise and it took him a moment to recognize his client. Oh, right. Hey, Danno, I haven’t forgotten you, babe. Come on in.

The walls of Leach’s monk-like windowless office was covered with lurid posters of pulp fiction detective novel covers. Not a real book in sight.

Dan casually tosses the manuscript on Ethan’s cluttered desk. I finished it a couple of weeks ago, he said.

Leach regarded the manuscript as though it were a dead fish. Danno, why do you insist on handing in paper manuscripts? Why can’t you put it on a CD like every other author I handle?

Because I like the look and feel of real paper. Call me an incurable romantic, but handling actual paper allows me the pathetic fantasy, if just for a moment, to believe that I am in the august company of great writers like Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Why is that a problem for you?

Because I can’t read words on paper, he said in a petulant tone. It’s much easier to read words on a computer screen.

Um, there the same words, Ethan.

It’s not the same. Never mind. Anyway, I read your other stuff.

Dan caught the less than enthusiastic tone in his editor’s voice.