Wolfe said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.” They sat in two leather chairs next to a fireplace.
“My pleasure,” he said, his blue, grandfatherly eyes sparkling with wisdom. “I can’t help but tell you how surprised I am to see you at one of our conferences. I guess it’s old news about your departure from the horror world, but still …”
“According to the Star I’ve had three nervous breakdowns after being abducted by aliens.”
Harry chuckled. “I suspect,” he said softly, “that you were kidnapped by a different kind of adversary altogether.”
“Former adversary,” Wolfe smiled.
“Indeed,” said Harry. “And now you’re here.”
“Yes sir. My agent assured me I would never fit in.”
“Your agent?”
“Yes.”
“Is he the fellow in the fancy trench coat who earlier insisted on praying over everyone’s coffee?”
Wolfe laughed. “It makes him feel good about himself.”
“Hmm,” Harry said. “Sounds like he’s having a harder time of it. Fitting in, I mean.”
“I give him credit. He’s the one that believed this might be the place for me.”
“What do you think?”
“I know that I still have a lot of stories in my heart to tell.”
Harry leaned forward. “What kinds of stories, Wolfe?”
Before Wolfe could answer, all of Alfred’s suggestions and pages of notes flooded his mind, blocking a single, coherent word from escaping. Impressively, Alfred had been very detailed about what constituted a religious novel. And he’d also lectured him all the way to Chicago about the required and effective formula for these kinds of books, including an actual spreadsheet.
“I’ve studied the three top-selling religious novels of all time,” Alfred had said. “Trust me. I have the pulse of the industry.”
Harry was patiently waiting, and Wolfe was trying to remember the exact story line Alfred had suggested for him, being a newbie and all.
“Listen, Wolfe,” Alfred had said, “you’re not going to get to go in there and just publish any kind of book you want. You’re going to have to present them with an idea that shows them you’re on board with this kind of thing.”
But right now Wolfe was drawing a blank as to what kind of thing he was supposed to be pitching. Harry looked concerned. “Well,” Wolfe began, “it’s set on a prairie.” “Really.”
“Yes. And in fact, there is a prairie woman in the book.” “The protagonist?”
“Exactly.” Things were starting to click. “Life is hard. She is widowed and raising two children. The land is desolate, and they’re trying to make their way west before the harsh winter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And without warning, catastrophe strikes.”
“A snowstorm?”
“The Rapture.”
Harry looked stunned. That was a good sign. Maybe Alfred had come up with a pretty original idea, which was shocking, since Alfred was hardly ever original.
Wolfe tried not to skip a beat. “So half the earths population is gone. There are a slew of covered wagons completely empty, the attached horses running wild without anybody to guide them.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“But not violent,” Wolfe said with a wink. Alfred had warned him that violence was strictly forbidden. “So there’s this prairie woman trying to deal with the fact that most everyone she knows is gone, when she suddenly encounters something so scary it brings her to her knees.”
“A false prophet?”
“A love interest.”
“Oh. A cowboy?”
“A eunuch.”
Harry looked completely lost. Wolfe was afraid he wasn’t explaining himself very well. But Alfred had thought the eunuch would work well, since the book had to be heavy on romance but light on love scenes. At least this way there would be plenty of room for clever conversation without any temptation.
Harry asked, “Is there an antagonist?”
This was the tricky part. In many previous books that Wolfe had written, the antagonist was a heavy smoker or drinker, fond of
“My pleasure,” he said, his blue, grandfatherly eyes sparkling with wisdom. “I can’t help but tell you how surprised I am to see you at one of our conferences. I guess it’s old news about your departure from the horror world, but still …”
“According to the Star I’ve had three nervous breakdowns after being abducted by aliens.”
Harry chuckled. “I suspect,” he said softly, “that you were kidnapped by a different kind of adversary altogether.”
“Former adversary,” Wolfe smiled.
“Indeed,” said Harry. “And now you’re here.”
“Yes sir. My agent assured me I would never fit in.”
“Your agent?”
“Yes.”
“Is he the fellow in the fancy trench coat who earlier insisted on praying over everyone’s coffee?”
Wolfe laughed. “It makes him feel good about himself.”
“Hmm,” Harry said. “Sounds like he’s having a harder time of it. Fitting in, I mean.”
“I give him credit. He’s the one that believed this might be the place for me.”
“What do you think?”
“I know that I still have a lot of stories in my heart to tell.”
Harry leaned forward. “What kinds of stories, Wolfe?”
Before Wolfe could answer, all of Alfred’s suggestions and pages of notes flooded his mind, blocking a single, coherent word from escaping. Impressively, Alfred had been very detailed about what constituted a religious novel. And he’d also lectured him all the way to Chicago about the required and effective formula for these kinds of books, including an actual spreadsheet.
“I’ve studied the three top-selling religious novels of all time,” Alfred had said. “Trust me. I have the pulse of the industry.”
Harry was patiently waiting, and Wolfe was trying to remember the exact story line Alfred had suggested for him, being a newbie and all.
“Listen, Wolfe,” Alfred had said, “you’re not going to get to go in there and just publish any kind of book you want. You’re going to have to present them with an idea that shows them you’re on board with this kind of thing.”
But right now Wolfe was drawing a blank as to what kind of thing he was supposed to be pitching. Harry looked concerned. “Well,” Wolfe began, “it’s set on a prairie.” “Really.”
“Yes. And in fact, there is a prairie woman in the book.” “The protagonist?”
“Exactly.” Things were starting to click. “Life is hard. She is widowed and raising two children. The land is desolate, and they’re trying to make their way west before the harsh winter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And without warning, catastrophe strikes.”
“A snowstorm?”
“The Rapture.”
Harry looked stunned. That was a good sign. Maybe Alfred had come up with a pretty original idea, which was shocking, since Alfred was hardly ever original.
Wolfe tried not to skip a beat. “So half the earths population is gone. There are a slew of covered wagons completely empty, the attached horses running wild without anybody to guide them.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“But not violent,” Wolfe said with a wink. Alfred had warned him that violence was strictly forbidden. “So there’s this prairie woman trying to deal with the fact that most everyone she knows is gone, when she suddenly encounters something so scary it brings her to her knees.”
“A false prophet?”
“A love interest.”
“Oh. A cowboy?”
“A eunuch.”
Harry looked completely lost. Wolfe was afraid he wasn’t explaining himself very well. But Alfred had thought the eunuch would work well, since the book had to be heavy on romance but light on love scenes. At least this way there would be plenty of room for clever conversation without any temptation.
Harry asked, “Is there an antagonist?”
This was the tricky part. In many previous books that Wolfe had written, the antagonist was a heavy smoker or drinker, fond of
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