He did the zombie-like terminal shuffle through the airport. Another book signing on the other side of the country, another too-long layover in San Francisco.
He took out his phone and accessed his bank account. He pondered the balance, ballooned by an honest-to-God advance from one of the few major publishers left. And now, they were looking at his previous ebooks, and talking more advances.
So now he had an editor to answer to, a man who already seemed bent on pushing him to the edge of pandering to an audience. A man who didn't seem to appreciate that his first successful ebook, a collection of short stories, had been titled, "We Don't Need No Stinking Genre."
He was scared, and sad. His dream had come true. He was a successful author now. And yet, he couldn't embrace success. Instead, he wrapped himself in regret over the life he was leaving behind.
His friends were treating him differently. He missed his job. He missed his coworkers, even the buttheads.
He never dreamed that success could be such a curse.
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