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They see plots like yours as Pollyanna stuff."
    "Wow. That's deep, bro."
    "Well, you have a lot of time to think when you're sitting at a taxi stand waiting for a fare to come along. I guess you naturally ponder the meaning of life and stuff. Say, how much money have you made from the stories you've posted on the internet?"
    I chuckled. "Point taken."
    "If the publishers want something different, give them something different. Once you start selling books, you can write whatever you want and see if the paying readers like it better."
    "I don't know what the publishers want. That's my problem. I send in my stories and they send them back with a photocopied form letter saying they're not commercially viable, the project doesn't fit their current needs, or that a story must be truly outstanding to be accepted. I ask them if the plot was weak, the writing poor, or what? The standard response I get from the secretaries is that the editors don't have time to write a critique of every book they review. Who asked for a critique? All I want to know is the main reason for the rejection. Five words scribbled on the rejection letter would help me adjust what I write to what they wanna see."
    "Maybe it's like the old saying. They don't know what they want, but they know it when they see it."
    "I guess. I recently read a note posted on a website written by a woman who clerked for an editor at one of the big publishing houses a decade ago. She said that a major part of her job was to accept submissions coming from the mail room, stockpile them in a corner of her office, and then mail them back to the authors after thirty days without anyone ever having read them. It really makes me wonder if anyone is even looking at my work. In fact, I read a blog note from an author who placed a tiny white feather between the first and second pages of his manuscript. When the MS was sent back to him he opened it very carefully and found that the feather was precisely where he had positioned it, meaning that the MS had never been opened. I don't know how prevalent that is, but it makes their inability to scribble a comment understandable."
    "Don't lose heart, bro. How many times have great authors had their early stories rejected, only to finally find someone who was willing to take a chance? Then you can thumb your nose at all the assholes who turned your work down. I've seen the fan letters you get and I've read your stories. You're really good, and you'll get published eventually. I just want an autographed copy of each of your books so I can prove to people that I knew you before you made it big."
    I smiled. "You're great for my ego, Billy. I'm really glad you came over."
    A somber look came over Billy's face. "Are you asking me to leave now?"
    "Hell, no. Have another beer. Have two. My ego needs lots more stroking."
    Billy smiled widely and chuckled. "Think I will. Ya know, Kathy was asking about you last week after the explosion. She said she tried to call twice, but your line was busy."
    "I received a lot of calls from friends after the explosion. I was on the phone almost all day."
    "She's got the hots for you, bro. I can't understand why you don't ask her out."
    "Billy, I like Kathy. A lot. I really do. But I don't have the time or the money for dating. My bankroll is almost gone, and I can't afford to go to a movie by myself, much less take a date. Those thirty bucks will feed me for a week. I'm living like a hermit. When I do go out it's only to stop at the bar and nurse a single beer for a few hours until it's so warm that I can't stand to drink it."
    "I just hope your books hit while you're still young enough to enjoy it."
    "Yeah, me too."
    * * *
    I waited three more days before trying to remove the paper from the wall. I had concluded that it would probably stay there for as long as I left it alone, but I wanted to experiment a bit more. As my right thumb touched the paper in the top right corner, it suddenly illuminated like a television set.