Bag of Bones by Stephen King Page A

pointed out on more than one occasion, fiction writers have a long arc.”
    â€œUh-huh.” I switched the telephone to the other ear and leaned back in my chair. I caught a glimpse of the framed Sara Laughs photo over my desk when I did. I would be visiting it at greater length and proximity that night in my dreams, although I didn’t know that then; all I knew then was that I wished like almighty fuck that Harold Oblowski would hurry up and get to the point.
    â€œI sense impatience, Michael my boy,” Harold said. “Did I catch you at your desk? Are you writing?”
    â€œJust finished for the day,” I said. “I am thinking about lunch, however.”
    â€œI’ll be quick,” he promised, “but hang with me, this is important. There may be as many as five other writers that we didn’t expect publishing next fall: Ken Follett . . . it’s supposed to be his best since Eye of the Needle  . . . Belva Plain . . . John Jakes . . .”
    â€œNone of those guys plays tennis on my court,” I said, although I knew that was not exactly Harold’s point; Harold’s point was that there are only fifteen slots on the Times list.
    â€œHow about Jean Auel, finally publishing the next of her sex-among-the-cave-people epics?”
    I sat up. “Jean Auel? Really?”
    â€œWell . . . not a hundred per cent, but it looks good. Last but not least is a new Mary Higgins Clark. I know what tennis court she plays on, and so do you.”
    If I’d gotten that sort of news six or seven years earlier, when I’d felt I had a great deal more to protect, I would have been frothing; Mary Higgins Clark did play on the same court, shared exactly the same audience, and so far our publishing schedules had been arranged to keep us out of each other’s way . . . which was to my benefit rather than hers, let me assure you. Going nose to nose, she would cream me. As the late Jim Croce so wisely observed, you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with Mary Higgins Clark. Not if you’re Michael Noonan, anyway.
    â€œHow did this happen?” I asked.
    I don’t think my tone was particularly ominous, but Harold replied in the nervous, stumbling-all-over-his-own-words fashion of a man who suspects hemay be fired or even beheaded for bearing evil tidings.
    â€œI don’t know. She just happened to get an extra idea this year, I guess. That does happen, I’ve been told.”
    As a fellow who had taken his share of double-dips I knew it did, so I simply asked Harold what he wanted. It seemed the quickest and easiest way to get him to relinquish the phone. The answer was no surprise; what he and Debra both wanted—not to mention all the rest of my Putnam pals—was a book they could publish in late summer of ’98, thus getting in front of Ms. Clark and the rest of the competition by a couple of months. Then, in November, the Putnam sales reps would give the novel a healthy second push, with the Christmas season in mind.
    â€œSo they say, ” I replied. Like most novelists (and in this regard the successful are no different from the unsuccessful, indicating there might be some merit to the idea as well as the usual free-floating paranoia), I never trusted publishers’ promises.
    â€œI think you can believe them on this, Mike— Darcy’s Admirer was the last book of your old contract, remember.” Harold sounded almost sprightly at the thought of forthcoming contract negotiations with Debra Weinstock and Phyllis Grann at Putnam. “The big thing is they still like you. They’d like you even more, I think, if they saw pages with your name on them before Thanksgiving.”
    â€œThey want me to give them the next book in November? Next month ?” I injected