David Dalglish asked. “Amen, brother,” McAfee said. “I know the feeling.” We all
grunted agreement. “No, I mean it,” Dalglish insisted. “What am I doing in this ...
UNDER CONTRACT
A Tale of Horror and Satire
by Craig Hansen
Copyright 2012 by Craig Hansen. All rights reserved. First Smashwords Edition: August 2012 ISBN: 9781476126562 Website: http://www.craig-hansen.com/ Cover Design: Streetlight Graphics Editor: Everything Indie LICENSE NOTES All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. DISCLAIMER The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication Prologue: Last Weekend Chapter 1: The Beginning Chapter 2: Six Months Later Chapter 3: The Next Day Chapter 4: The Rewrites Chapter 5: The Bullying Begins Chapter 6: Recovery—Six Months Later Chapter 7: An Unexpected Call Chapter 8: The Second Novel Chapter 9: A Detour for Love Chapter 10: The Third Novel Chapter 11: Ten Years Later Epilogue: A Year Ago Epilogue II: Revenge of the Epilogues About the Author Books by Craig Hansen What Writers and Readers Are Saying About SHADA What Readers Are Saying About MOST LIKELY
Dedication
TO BRUCE LANSKY, WHO OFFERED me my first job in publishing out of college, and actually did publish my first short story ever to see print through a traditional publishing house. “Chardae’s Thousand and One Nights” appears in Girls to the Rescue, Volume 1, published by Meadowbrook Press and distributed by Simon & Schuster. Thanks, Bruce.
Prologue: Last Weekend
“I LOVE THE FREEDOM OF being an independent author,” David McAfee said as he dealt the last card in a round of seven-card stud. “I can write what I want, when I want.” We all picked up our hands and started sorting cards. “I don’t know that being published by a traditional publisher would be so bad,” Victorine Lieske said, her brow furrowed as she studied her hand. “The problem is getting them to look at you at all.” “That’s not so hard,” I said. “Why am I here?” David Dalglish asked. “Amen, brother,” McAfee said. “I know the feeling.” We all grunted agreement. “No, I mean it,” Dalglish insisted. “What am I doing in this place?” “How many?” McAfee asked, looking at Vicki. “Three, please,” she said, setting her rejected cards back on the table and pushing them McAfee’s way. He dealt her three more. “Believe it or not, I had a Big Six publisher turn me down because Not What She Seems did too well. They said the market was saturated. I sold around a hundred thousand copies, but still.” “Two, please,” I said, setting my cards on the table. McAfee pushed two new ones my way. Glancing at Vicki, I said, “They always want something new, something fresh.” Vicki sighed. “Are you all ignoring me?” Dalglish interrupted. “Seriously, you’re acting like this is happening. But I don’t remember how I got here. Suddenly, I was here. The four of us haven’t been in the same room together before, as far as I know. What’s going on?” “Ugh, I hate the word suddenly,” Vicki complained. “It’s so rarely used to describe something sudden. And it’s a word that separates you from the sudden thing that should be going on. Remember your action verbs, Dalglish.”
“How many?” McAfee asked. “Cards, or action verbs?” Dalglish sighed. “I’m not playing along. Not until I get some answers.” Vicki stood. “Sounds as though Mister Grouchy needs a snack. Root beer, everyone?” We all grunted approval as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Wait, this must be Vicki’s place,” Dalglish said. “If she’s serving snacks, that’s where we must be. Charles and her children are probably nearby.” “You need to relax,” McAfee said. “I need to be writing, not sitting here in a make-believe poker game with writers I know from KindleBoards.” He turned to me. “Who are you, anyway?” “Craig Hansen,” I replied. “I’ve Photoshopped your faces into other photos, on that one thread. I have a couple novels out.” “Wait a second—” Dalglish was cut off as Vicki reentered the room with a full tray. “Root beer floats for everyone!” she said. “Sell another ten thousand copies of Not What She Seems?” I asked. “About that many,” she said. “Slow month.” “David, how many cards do you want?” McAfee asked, staring down Dalglish. “Don’t you get it? This never happened. Someone’s making it up. Someone here. And I’m not playing along till I learn who. Probably not even then.” Victorine pinched Dalglish’s cheeks the way a mother would her child’s. “C’mon,” she said. “I just gave you a float.” “I figure it has to be either Vicki, because we seem to be at her place, or Hansen here.” “Why me?” I asked. “Gee, I wonder,” Dalglish said. “This sounds like a comedy to me, and you’re always cracking wise on KB.” I took the first frosty sip of my float. “Well,” Vicki said, sitting back down, “all I know is, I still think it could be a good thing to be traditionally published. It’s great being an indie and all, but there has to be an upside to signing with a Big Six publisher. I mean, that’s nearly all there was till a few years ago.”
“Yeah, and none of us here ever got signed under the old system, so screw ‘em. They missed their chance with us.” McAfee looked expectantly at Dalglish. Dalglish sighed. “Four cards,” he said softly. “But only because I want to see where this goes, so I know who brought me here. I have a wife, you know. I’d rather be with her.” McAfee dealt the four replacement cards to Dalglish, then two to himself. “Be careful what you wish for, Vicki,” I said. “Living as a traditionally published author isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” “How would you know?” she asked. “I thought you’ve always said that other than a couple short stories, you’ve never been traditionally published.” I chewed on my lower lip. “I have a confession to make.” “Aw, geez,” Dalglish said in an outburst of frustration. “Hansen, I knew this was you.” “I used to be traditionally published author,” I admitted. “What? When?” Vicki said. McAfee said, “You never admitted that before.” “Fiction,” Dalglish said. “I call fiction. This is some setup for a story, isn’t it? I’m not amused. Hansen, we barely know each other, you and I. You get that, right?” “It’s true,” I told the others. “I could tell you horror stories about being traditionally published. I only signed one traditional contract, but it changed my life. I remember it like it happened in the eighties.” “What, now the rest of the story is a flashback?” Dalglish whined. “Readers hate flashbacks almost as much as they hate prologues. Don’t tell me. I’m in a prologue? Tell me I’m not in a prologue. I’d prefer watching a movie with my wife and eating fudge.” “Fudge might go well with root beer floats,” Vicki said. “Dude, relax and let the guy tell his story,” McAfee said, shaking his head. Dalglish glared at me from across the table. “Send me home, Hansen. Please.” I cleared my throat and began my confession.
Chapter 1 The Beginning
IT WAS A DARK AND stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out! The maid screamed! And... Err, wrong story. Sorry, Snoopy. Anyway, yeah, I was young and stupid, what can I say? This was before the era of eReaders. Well before. Like, the eighties, remember? One day, I was approached by an editor in a dark overcoat. “Hey, kid,” he whispered in a conspiratorial, Deep Throat-esque voice. “I got something I wanna show ya.” A naïve teenager, I approached him. “What’s that?” I asked. He opened his London Fog trench coat and there it was, revealed at last. Pale white, etched in patterns not familiar to me, yet strangely ... familiar. “This here’s a traditional publishing contract, kiddo,” he said. “You write three books in the next five years, and I promise you, we’re gonna take care of you ... real good.” “Gee, mister,” I said, because although I wasn’t alive back then, I somehow seemed to live in the fifties, “that sure sounds like a swell deal. I’ve always wanted to be a writer for a big publishing firm in New York.” “Don’t sweat it, kid,” the editor said, eyes scanning the streets warily. “Of all the firms in the Big Apple, this one’s the firmest. Sign here.” So I did. And thus began the most harrowing experience of my life.
Chapter 2 Six Months Later
DESPITE THE TRENCHCOATED EDITOR’S SHIFTY appearance, I soon began receiving regular communications from New York; specifically, Siegel and Shuster. My editor turned out to be Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis herself, though the heavy lifting was done by her minions. Anyway, feeling the zest and optimism all young writers feel, I immediately began work on my first novel. I decided to write a brilliant portrait of a young man growing up in the Midwest, because I was a young man growing up in the Midwest. I wrote faster than I had ever written, like a young boy with his first book contract, eager to see that first advance installment arrive in the mail, the princely sum of twelve-hundred dollars. Hey, it was the eighties and I was a teenager. Shut up. That seemed like a lot, back then. I instilled elements of romance, humor, and tragedy into every chapter, all revolving around the primary theme of a young, misunderstood kid coming to accept that although no one likes him, it’s okay to feel comfortable as himself. Also, he won the US presidency in a landslide. Full of vim and vigor, I mailed my massive tome off to New York and waited with bated breath. (Nightcrawlers are easy to find in the Midwest, and a surprisingly common food source.) I remained eager to hear from Jackie O and her minions about what a stellar genius they’d had the foresight to sign to a three-book contract. Certain I was about to be discovered and become a humongous star, larger than Stephen King ever dreamed of being, I went to bed that night, convinced the future held only roses and champagne ahead. The next day, the first phone call came.
Chapter 3 The Next Day
THE PHONE RANG. MY PARENTS were up before me, and after a couple exchanges with the caller, my mom handed me the phone. “It sounds as though this is for you, Craig,” she said. “Someone from New York City.” “New York City?” I frowned. “What do they know about salsa?” “It’s about your book,” she corrected me. I took the phone and said hello. “Are you Craig Hansen?” the voice on the other end asked. “That’s me,” I said. “What is this crap I’m reading in front of me?” he asked. “Gee, sir, how should I know? Whatcha readin’, mister?” “This piece of crap manuscript you call a novel.” “Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute,” I said, suddenly from the American south. “Who are you? Where’s my editor, Jackie O?” “They tell the idiots that, kid,” the voice said. “You believed them?” “Well, I mean, I didn’t know ... I mean...” “Fagedabuddit,” he said. “Our acquisitions editor shoulda tested your IQ first, kid. Fine. Whatever. I need rewrites Audi U, and I need ‘em last week!” “Rewrites?” I asked. “What kind of rewrites? And who are you, anyway?” “I’m your real editor, Bernard Goetz. Now shut up before I turn your kitty cat into beef stew.” “But don’t you need a cow to make—” “Don’t test me, kid. Be thankful you signed with Siegel and Shuster. I’m here to get you Audi this mess you made. Look, this crap ain’t as smelly as most the stuff I see come through these doors. But you got a lot to fix, and soon, or you’ll be in breach of contract.”
“Breach of contract?” I said. “I thought I had five years to deliver three books!” “Kid, welcome to publishing. You were already two books behind the moment you signed that contact. I bet you didn’t even read the small print.” “Small print?” “Microscopic. God, I hate working with tyros. But you listen to me, kid, and I’ll get you through this. Alive, maybe.” “Gee, mister, I sure hope so. I have a community play practice tomorrow night.” “Not anymore, you don’t. You signed a trad-pub contract. Your expletive deleted is ours.” “My what?” “You heard me. Your expletive deleted.” “What I heard you say are the words expletive deleted. Usually when someone swears, you hear the words they say and only when it’s written down are they edited out.” “Kid, what’s my expletive deleted job?” “Umm, editor, according to you?” “Exactly, numbskull. Now, let’s quit yakking and get to work.” Shortly thereafter, the Yak Antidefamation League filed suit against this eBook.
Chapter 4 The Rewrites
AS I LISTENED TO BERNIE’S editorial feedback, my first novel slowly began to transform. My optimistic young hero from the Midwest suddenly became a street-tough youth from Hell’s Kitchen, New York. “No one gives an expletive deleted about flyover country, kid,” Bernie told me. “Where’s flyover country?” I asked. “It’s where you are right now, you idiot, and exactly where you’ll always stay unless you stop asking stupid questions and get to revising.” And so he was from Hell’s Kitchen. For a couple revisions, at least. Instead of coming to terms with his own self-esteem, my young protagonist had to cope with his best friend sleeping with his girlfriend. “That sounds kinda, I don’t know, dirty,” I objected. “The world’s dirty, kid. Ain’t your fault. Just write it.” And so it went. By the time I was done, I adopted a pen name and renamed the novel Less Than Zero. We hired an actor to be the public face of my pen name: Bret Easton Ellis. But my troubles had only begun. Not only was I under contract to Siegel and Shuster, I was about to become trad-publishing’s expletive deleted.
Chapter 5 The Bullying Begins
I WAS WALKING THROUGH THE Oak Park Mall in Austin one day, passing a B. Dalton Bookseller there, when I saw my first novel in a display standee. Sure, it bore the name Bret Easton Ellis, but I knew Less Than Zero was mine. A tall, burly, ex-NBA player stood next to the standee, arms crossed, scowling. He snarled as I approached the standee. “Move along,” he said. “Hey,” I said in greeting. “I only wanted to look at my new novel.” “Your new novel?” he asked. He picked up a copy and looked at the dust jacket. “You think I’m stupid because I’m an athlete? This here’s the author. He ain’t you. Now beat it.” “What?” I asked. “Why? Even if you don’t believe me, certainly I have as much right to look at a book here as anyone else.” “Nope,” he said. “Why not?” “I ain’t asking, kid. Leave while you can still walk.” I walked past him to speak to a sales clerk when I felt myself grabbed from behind. A massive impact on the left side as my body collided with what could only be a brick wall. I blacked out.
Chapter 6 Recovery—Six Months Later
“CONGRATULATIONS ON TAKING YOUR FIRST steps after your unfortunate encounter,” Dr. Breen said. “How did all this happen to you? You’ve undergone months of speech therapy. You can tell me now.” I sighed and slumped back into my wheelchair. “All I wanted to do,” I told Dr. Breen, “was buy a copy of my own book. Heck, just look at it, even.” “Oh, yes, you’re a writer, aren’t you?” Dr. Breen said. “I wanted to mention, you should send a thank-you note to your publisher. They paid for all these surgeries that restored your hands.” “They what?” “Ahh, you writers lead such privileged lives. I envy you. It’s true, though. The Siegel and Shuster accounting department phoned our hospital and asked us to give you the finest care and to make sure your hands work.” “My hands?” “Why, I imagine so you can keep writing, of course,” Dr. Breen said. “You know, I’ve always thought I had a novel in me.” I offered my doctor the most serious, sober expression I could muster. “Keep it there,” I said. “For God’s sake, keep it there, where it’s safe.” He left then, mumbling something about jealous writers who can’t stand the thought of competition. Little did he know, my warning probably saved his life. As for my life, things were about to get far worse.
Chapter 7 An Unexpected Call
“MERRY CHRISTMAS,” THE VOICE ON the other end of my phone line said. “It’s July,” I reminded Bernie, my editor. “Yeah, well, we’re wrapping up the books in our Christmas lineup, so expletive deleted you. Where’s our next novel?” “Next novel?” I asked. “A big goon beat me nearly to death. I had to learn how to walk and talk again. I don’t have a next novel. When have I had time?” “Cry me a river,” Bernie said. “We paid for your recovery. You owe us.” “Why have I never received a copy of Less Than Zero?” “The actor portraying Bret has the writing bug. We’ve moved on. He’ll be writing the next Bret Ellis novel. We have something new planned for you.” “But Less Than Zero was my book.” “Welcome to publishing.” “What’s the next book called?” “Rules of Attraction. It’s complete crap. Who cares? The book sold gangbusters and people like his face. You, on the other hand, had yours beat in. We have new plans for you.” “You know, I looked it up in Publisher’s Weekly. Less Than Zero didn’t sell a single copy in Minnesota.” “It sold better everywhere else. I told you, no one cares about flyover country. I need that manuscript by last week Friday.” I sighed, knowing additional arguments were pointless. “I’ll do what I can,” I told him. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Bernie replied. “Remember, Hansen, you’re under contract.”
Chapter 8 The Second Novel
I DECIDED I WANTED TO write something closer to my own experience this time, so I began a new tale. I wrote a classic coming-of-age story in which a Midwestern boy moves to New York and discovers not everyone is as pleasant as they are back in Hope, Wisconsin. Although still optimistic, the tale possessed a new, bitter edge. Even though it disturbed me, it’s what came out of me as I sat in front of my trusty Smith-Corona typewriter. Still, I managed to hit on universal themes of friendship, community, and finding one’s wealth in the relationships they forge with those they love. The novel ended with my new character rediscovering the importance of living as a good neighbor, wherever you live. Also, he was elected Pope in a landslide of cardinals. “It’s crème-de-la-crap,” Bernie told me after reading the draft I’d mailed off following a marathon session in which I typed a hundred and ninety thousand words over a long weekend, stopping for only two naps. “Gee, thanks,” I said. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m here to guide you through to writing a successful novel.” “Revision time?” I asked. “Expletive deleted, kid,” he replied. “Expletive deleted.” I won’t bore you with the details. The novel that my slightly-less-optimistic tome transformed into came to be known as Silence of the Lambs. The genuine Thomas Harris had died shortly after turning in a subpar draft of Black Sunday, Bernie explained, and contract writers had been filling in ever since. Anne Rice had written Red Dragon, apparently. As everyone knows, Silence of the Lambs kicked butt as a novel, kicked butt as a movie, and was Harris’ most successful thriller ever. Yet no one knew my name. And no copies were sold in Minnesota.
I was beginning to think that was a good thing. I was wrong.
Chapter 9 A Detour for Love
TIME PASSED. I ENTERED COLLEGE. And as young college men are biologically driven to do, I met a nice young woman. Considering the campus brimmed with them, I guess that wasn’t too hard. Odd. Anyway, we grew fond of each other and after five months of steady dating, we dared to hold hands for the first time, being the modest, proper types all us Midwesterners are. And then... oh heck, then we felt expletive deleted and frustrated and I proposed to her. And she accepted. (Believe it or not, not all females are so disgusted with occasional physical contact with members of the opposite sex that it makes them ill.) I must have been a good hand holder for a beginner. So, we set the wedding date for July and I began to look forward to that legendary night all young engaged men anticipate: the day after the honeymoon, when all the hoo-rah is over and life can get back to normal. Of course, I was contractually bound from telling young Ainsley about the wildly successful books I’d written so far, at least until after the wedding. Yet when you’re young and in love, such things seem trivial. Things like that, or revealing you have cancer and maybe four months left. You know, the small stuff; the stuff you’re not supposed to sweat. Things no bride wants to know or hear about or be tipped off to until after they say, “I do.” Then, one day in mid spring, I received a call. “Congrats on the pending nuptials, expletive deleted,” Bernie greeted me. “How’d you spend your day?” “Well, I started off drinking a cherry smoothie,” I told him, “and then I—” “You’re feeling your oats, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am,” I said. “The royalties and movie rights from Silence of the Lambs is paying my way through college in style, I have a swell gal in my life, and everything’s coming up roses.” “I need that third novel,” Bernie growled. “You know what, Bernie? After all I’ve been through? Expletive deleted you.” “Wow,” Bernie said. “That’s the first sign of backbone you’ve ever shown. You’re growing up, aren’t you, kid?” “I suppose it’s time I do,” I said. “I’m no longer in high school. I’m out in the world, engaged, and about to become a husband. Ainsley says if I play my cards right, on our honeymoon she might let me get to second base. Second base!” “You’re easy to please, aincha?” “I like to think so,” I said. “So you’re telling me you’re not going to deliver your third novel? The novel you signed a contract with Siegel and Shuster to deliver? The novel that you have two weeks left to deliver to me before the contract expires?” “That’s the size of it,” I said. “I was afraid you’d feel that way, this late in the game, kid,” Bernie said. “Hey, did you at least enjoy your cherry smoothie this morning?” “I sure did,” I said, smug. “How’d she taste?” Bernie asked. “You mean how’d it taste?” I corrected, ever the wordsmith. “It tasted—” “I meant she,” Bernie said. “You see, Craig, I’m a practical man. We’ve known each for more than four years now. We’ve created two novels together. I think I know how you tick. So I prepared for the possibility you’d respond like this. I took advance measures.” “Okay,” I said, warily. “Have you seen your fiancée today?” “Not yet,” I said. “We’re getting together later to discuss invitation designs.” “Wrong,” Bernie said. “You saw her this morning. I knew that, because I arranged it. I’m not a cannibal myself, so what I really want to know is: how’d she taste? Did we go too heavy on the cherry juice? Use too much sugar? How’d your fiancée Ainsley taste?” “Ohmigod!” I screamed, stomach lurching.
“Get that third expletive deleted manuscript to me by Monday, Hansen, or you’ll be dining on the rest of your family before the month is out. Siegel and Shuster employs the finest chefs on the planet. You’ll never know which meal they are until it’s too late. And don’t waste time whining about it. You signed a traditional publishing contract. You get what you get. Now get to writing, you expletive deleted!” And eventually, after there was nothing left for the dry heaves I was suffering to expel, that’s exactly what I did.
Chapter 10 The Third Book
I WENT INTO A SORT of fugue state the next two days. I remember walking over to the university computer lab, sitting down in front of an Apple Macintosh SE, inserting a state-of-theart three-and-a-half-inch floppy, loading up MacWord, and then, not much else. My next clear memory was of dropping a thick manuscript in the mail. For the next few days, I became terrified to eat anything. Finally, I ventured a couple granola bars. The next day, I received a call from Bernie. “I got good news for you, kid,” he said. “I don’t need no revisions outta ya.” “Honestly?” “What you sent me is perfect. Every single word. We plan to publish it as-is. It’s wordy, more than three hundred thousand words, but I have the ideal placement for you. It’ll take a few years, but the wait’ll be worth it, kid. You have finally become a professional writer. That stuff you wrote gave me the heebie-jeebies!” “Thanks, I guess,” I said. “I don’t suppose it’ll be published under my name this time, will it?” “Kid, you’re a nobody. Don’t be stupid. But you’re big time now, kid. There’s no bigger front-man out there than this guy.” “You mean it’s over?” I said, wheezy, on the verge of tears. “Kid, it’s never over. Siegel and Shuster’s happy with you. They want to offer you another contract.” “Never,” I said. “It don’t matter,” Bernie said. “Contractually, we have a twenty-year right-of-first-refusal on any book you write.” “Only twenty years?” “Kid, appearances can be deceiving. We’re big publishing. We’re not monsters.”
“The wait will be worth it,” I said. “I’m not sure I can write anything for the next couple decades anyway. Not after all this.” “Your choice, kid. I think I might take the subway home tonight. You know, to relax. Life’s short, especially under contract. Should you ever change your mind, we’ll be waiting.” And they were.
Chapter 11 Ten Years Later
AFTER THE FINAL NOTE FADED, I placed the karaoke mic back in its holder, went to the bar, and ordered a Mountain Dew. A thirty-something woman sat down next to me. “That was too good for a place like this,” she said. “Do you sing?” “I used to write,” I told her. “In a different life.” “You write all the time,” she said. “I recognize you from the newspaper.” “Sports journalism.” I shrugged. “I used to write novels.” “Cool,” she said. “What made you give it up?” “You’d never believe me, even if I told you.” She sighed. “Well, I wanted to say, you sang some killer Bon Jovi up there. You should be making a living off your voice.” “Thanks,” I said, and took a slow sip of Mountain Dew. When I looked back, she hadn’t left. “I’m serious,” she said. “Have you ever thought about it?” “About what?” I asked. “Making a living off your voice. Singing. You know, professionally.” “Like anyone’s going to find me here in Hope, Wisconsin.” She smiled, her teeth preternaturally white. “Hey, I found you, didn’t I?” she said, extending her hand and a business card. “Aileen Wuornos, Sore Throat Records. I’m a talent scout, you see. I am authorized to sign you, tonight, to a four-record, six-year contract.” “Contract?” I said, shivering. “I’m not so sure about that.” “Look,” she said, her voice growing firm, “I don’t know what drove you away from publishing, but let me assure you, the music industry is nothing like the book publishing business. Everyone knows that! We’re completely on the up-and-up!” I chewed my lower lip and stared at the business card in front of me. “How big an advance are we talking?” I said. “I recently got engaged.”
Epilogue One Year Ago
FLIPPING THROUGH EBOOK LISTINGS ON my eReader, looking at the latest offerings by my favorite authors, I noticed a recent release marked down to less than ten bucks. “Stupid traditional publishers,” I said, shivering. “Think they can overprice everything.” Yet I had the money, and he was one of my favorite authors. I clicked Buy Now. The book took longer than normal to download, but that was common with this author. Eager to experience his latest, I opened it in my eReader and began to read the first paragraph. It read like comfortable shoes feel. I gasped. The words were familiar to me. Too familiar. My third book had finally seen the light of day. After all this time, I’d nearly forgotten. They’d changed the title, but everything else remained the same. Bernie had kept his word after all. I flipped my eReader to the front of the eBook and stared in amazement at the cover: UNDER THE DOME by Stephen King.
Epilogue II Revenge of the Epilogues
OH, AND ALSO, SHORTLY AFTER writing this, I was almost unanimously elected president of the Writers Guild of America. Only one vote held out. “Why would I vote for you, Hansen?” David Dalglish asked. “You not only put me in the prologue, but in the epilogue, too? And a second epilogue, at that? Who does that?”
THE END
About the Author
CRAIG HANSEN WROTE STORIES FROM an early age, but when his SF short story, “The S.S. Nova,” was published in the Minnesota Writers in the Schools COMPAS program’s 1981 anthology of student writing, When It Grows Up, You Say Goodbye To It, he decided to dedicate himself to writing. Several unpublished novels and short stories followed. Hansen earned two degrees at Minnesota State University at Mankato under the mentorship of young adult novelist Terry Davis. In the years that followed, Hansen worked a variety of jobs related to writing, including editorial work at a small publishing house, holding a position as a website editor, and five years in journalism in northwestern Wisconsin, where he earned several state awards for his writing and editing. His work has appeared in the Meadowbrook Press anthology, Girls to the Rescue, Book 1, as well as the true crime journal, Ripper Notes, in volume 28.
His first novel, Most Likely, was released in May 2011. Shada was the first installment of the Ember Cole series of young adult paranormal suspense books, and was published in September 2011. Under Contract is his third published work. Hansen is hard at work on two novel-length books. Ember continues the story of Ember Cole that began in Shada, and will be the second novel in that series. EyeCU will become his first novel-length horror tale for older readers. Hansen lives in Oregon with his wife, a dog, a cat, and his 90-year-old father, a World War II veteran. Craig’s interests include the music of Johnny Cash, reading the novels of other independent authors, blogging, and the study of Messianic theology. On his website, you can sign up to receive a periodic email newsletter that will notify you when he releases new books.
Connect With Me Online At: Twitter: www.twitter.com/craigahansen Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Craig-Hansen-Author Blog and website: www.craig-hansen.com
Books by Craig Hansen
For Young Adults Most Likely (2011) Shada (2011)
For Older Readers Under Contract (2012)
What Writers and Readers Are Saying About SHADA
“This is a great book … I enjoyed SHADA very much. It’s got that spine tingling fun while drawing you into the characters and their lives.” —Victorine E. Lieske, NYT bestselling author of Not What She Seems and the Overtaking series “SHADA drew me in, left me wanting more, and made me a little afraid to go outside after dark.” —T.L. Haddix, author of Secrets in the Shadows, Under the Moon’s Shadow, and Shadows from the Grave “It really is a well written story, I liked the characters the author has developed, they fit nicely together. The writing style is very smooth and flows right along not leaving out any details. I can’t wait to read the second book in the series.” —Bookworm Nattie, Purple Jelly Bean Chair Reviews “The story had an endearing charm about it—a combination of the feel of old-fashioned ghost stories combined with the complexities of modern day friendship in a technological age. The girls were not the usual norm, they were unique individuals and I especially enjoyed their camaraderie.” —L.L. Treacy, Reader Girls Blog “The writing style was fluid and the story logical, which with many books I read isn’t always the case.” —Ami Blackwelder, Amazon.com
What Readers Are Saying About MOST LIKELY
“Hansen’s ability to handle a touchy subject (child abuse) with grace was wildly impressive. While most authors shoot for “shock and awe” when dealing with a sensitive subject, Hansen chose a different road. Does that mean we aren’t given details as to what happened? Of course not, but instead of focusing on the bruises themselves, he chose to focus on the emotional ramifications of them which was a refreshing new take.” —Misty Baker, Kindle Obsessed “The characterization was very well done and Becky was a typical teenager struggling with difficult situations, temptations, and doubts. She experienced an emotional roller coaster and I was along for the ride, chiding her, cheering her, and crying with her. I liked how the main character was so realistic and believable, she wasn’t perfect.” —Stacy L. Daniels, Amazon.com “I not only look forward to reading more by this author, I plan on telling everyone I know about his work … Anytime a book can bring out the emotions this book brought out in me, it goes high on my list.” —Sandra K. Stiles, Musings of a Book Addict “She was a very sympathetic heroine, and while this is a Christian book, it wasn’t in your face. I liked that she struggled with her faith and was relatable. The book has a decidedly Christian bent, but the author is not pushing an agenda. The book was well written, with a lyrical quality.” —Heather A. Sapp, Amazon.com “His sentences have a gentle rhythm, and the story moves at a calm and measured pace … Hansen also does a good job showing the everyday ordinariness of life during rather extraordinary times.” —Cidney, Amazon.com
