The Life and Times of Steven G. Ratenstein

“It was a dark and stormy night and the only sound heard was a large rat scratching at the door…”

“Stop right there.  That’s an awful way to start a horror story.  It’s too cliché… it just feels like you’re a twelve-year-old boy scout telling a ghost story over the campfire.  You could probably give a toddler chills, but beyond that, it reads closer to comedy than anything else.  What did you say your book was about again?”

“It’s about a serial killer from Tennessee.  He has this special power where he can turn into a rat and…”

“That’s absolutely idiotic.  Give me the manuscript so that I can burn it and then toss it in a port-a-potty where it belongs.  You’re a hack.  My seven cats are probably all better writers than you are.  I don’t even know how you’ve published any books. “

“I haven’t.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.  Please do the world a favor and break all of your fingers so you can never write again.  Or better yet, kill yourself.  Yeah, do that.  That would be wonderful.  Now get out of my office.”

Paul was devastated.  He had spent the last four years of life writing his book, The Life and Times of Steven G. Ratenstein.  After all, he had plenty of free time.  Coming out of college with a degree in medieval literature, his only job offers had been as a jester at King Richard’s Faire and as a barista at Starbucks.  Since he could neither juggle nor make smiley faces in the foam of a latte, he opted to try his hand at writing a full-length novel.  Now, he had even failed at that.  He couldn’t seem to do anything right in his life.  He had no job.  He had no girlfriend.  His parents had kicked him out of their basement, forcing him to live in a dingy seventh-story apartment, sandwiched between a prostitute and a coke dealer.  His life was miserable.  Maybe the editor was right.  Maybe he should kill himself.  Fifteen minutes later, he found himself walking down the medicine aisle at Rite-Aid, looking for sleeping pills.  He grabbed six bottles, figuring it would be sufficient for his needs.  He arrived at the register, set down his manuscript, and fumbled around for his wallet.  The cashier, a pink-haired twenty-something with a nose ring, glanced at his manuscript and smiled.

“A writer, eh?”

“I try.”

“I dig writers.  My name’s Hope.  I get off at six.  What are you doing then?”

Paul smiled and finished paying.  On his way out, he dropped all six bottles of pills in the garbage can.  Hope had arrived.