THE FIFTY-SIXTH PAGE

No one cares to hear the rantings of the dispossessed, though it may be part of the alleged healing process for some of us.

Spew, hapless writer: It is enough to know that the foolish jacket heralded a similar stupid action for every backward step forward in the publishing process. From the cheesy binding and yellowing page stock to the final sales accounting in the low three figures, my publisher excelled in mediocrity, even when an attempt to virtually give away the book failed; my misbegotten child wasn’t even seen fit as an overstock remainder, and I wasn’t able to take back the publication rights until the malingering stock had been legally eliminated by shredding, burning, or papier-macheing.

Stop, disgruntled author; you were lucky to be paid a handsome sum. You had your fifteen seconds of glory. Please consider how many manuscripts never see a typeface other than a typewriter’s plainspoken Courier.

Time does not truly heal all wounds, it merely cauterizes them, leaving under the seared flesh a festering sore. The pain remained below the surface as I practiced patience and began purposely to read more murder mysteries. Yes, Fortunato, I vowed revenge--not today, probably not tomorrow, but the time would come.