“You’re fighting a losing battle,” my agent told me in no uncertain terms. “That book you’ve been working on for three years, Leftovers…?”

“Who’s Left?”

“It’s too long. Too long.”

I pointed out that 800 pages would put me in the same league as Stephen King.

“I mean it’s taking you too long to write.”

“You took me on because I was willing to put in the time it took to write quality literature,” I reminded him.

“Those were the old days,” he said. “Now you’re a dinosaur.” He leaned back in his 1924 office chair. The wooden frame creaked louder than his voice. “Why, just today I threw a young lady out of the office four times for four different books. The one she wrote before breakfast, the one she wrote after I threw her out the first time, the one she wrote after I threw her out the second time and the one she just finished. I just sent her packing. I’m surprised you didn’t cross paths.”

“The only person I saw on the way in was your new secretary,” I said, admittedly showing off my novelist’s eye for detail.

“Secretary? Oh, no. That’s her. She’s writing her next book. In fact…” he glanced at his watch, “…I’ve only got about five minutes before I throw her out again.”

His hands splashed around on his cluttered desk. They fished out a sheet of paper that showed the signs of a painful extraction from a magazine.

“Here” he said, pushing my nose into the sheet. “The president of Pizza Hut says customers want their pizza in a hurry rather than wanting it good,” he said. “That, my boy, is what we call an epiphany.”

“More like a case of indulging himself with his own product. Probably right before bedtime.”

He leaned in toward me, his chair creaking in reverse.

“I think you have promise,” he said, “so I’m going to help you out.” He withdrew a sheet of yellow paper from his jacket pocket. It was a handwritten list of books, conveniently available on Amazon, with titles such as Write A Book in 4 Hours, Write a Book in 2 Hours, Dictate Your Book in 30 Minutes and You’ve Already Written Your Book In A Prior Life: Here’s How to Find It.

“In the time it takes me to read these books I could be finishing my novel,” I said.

His shoulders fell as his eyes welled up with tears. “I’m going to hate to see you go.” He got up from his desk and walked me to the door. Before he could take back his words we were knocked over by the young writer from the reception area. She dropped to her knees and thrust her manuscript into his hand.

“I’ll dash to the bathroom,” she said. “You can tell me what you think when I get back.” I watched her sprint down the hall.

“I have an idea,” I said. “It’s for a book, something I’m sure I can write in a few hours.” I thought I saw his face brighten imperceptibly, although his voice lacked any affect.

“Go on,” he said.

“It’s about a young couple. She’s pregnant, so they go to their obstetrician. They want a Cesarian so they can enjoy their little bundle of joy in six months instead of waiting a whole nine.”

“Where’s the conflict?” he asked.

“Um…the obstetrician wants them to wait seven.”

He sprang to his feet and grabbed my arm. “Sit down, my boy, sit down,” he said, thrusting me into the seat behind the computer. “I’ll, too, shall dash down the hall and read it when I get back.” With a gleeful shuffle he inched out the door.

I sighed.

But at least I had an hour to rescue my career.