Chapter 17

I never went to college, university and much less got a master’s degree. Lars had made his point very clear and I was too much of a mouse to bite the lion’s tail. I didn’t even made it to Mrs. Potts’ Creative Writing Seminar. 

Nor to the British Library.  

Lars’ library was comfortable enough as to work from there: so I did it. For three years long, I spent every minute after he was gone to work in there (when I wasn’t traveling with him). I did manage to write some things and even publish two books with my stories, but nothing more. It was self-publishing company; I didn’t have the guts to get into the writers’ mafia guild. One look at the very, very gay man sitting behind a desk -someone highly recommended by my aunt Clara- made me realise that he was more into the aspiring writer than into his writings. He was more than eager to get me contacts in the publishing world. 

Right, he was all into contact and keeping in touch with me, something that Lars wouldn’t like at all. If he was jealous of a pizza delivery boy, he would murder a respected publisher with the keys to Calliope and Melpomene’s E-mart.  

That was the last time I was in Madrid. 

As the man perfectly explained to me you have to be “in” to be taken seriously. Translation; hover around some professors, write what you’re expected to write; flatter whom you know you have to flatter and be patient. One day, one of the cronies might die (or post something inappropriate in Twitter) and you’ll inherit the keys to kingdom come. 

I didn’t have the stamina to endure it and Lars wasn’t exactly helping with his “did he write anything worth reading? I mean, something you can read,” question. 

We will always have Amazon Kindle Publishing.