By Blood Written by Steven Womack

little celebration’s in order tonight.”
    “I just hope Michael’s happy with all this.”
    Neil backed out of the door frame, waving his hand dismissively. “If he’s not, he’s crazy.” He stopped, looked back at Taylor with a raised eyebrow.
    “Then again, he’s a writer. By definition, he’s crazy.”
    Neil closed the door as he left, leaving her to make one last review of the contracts. It was, by any sane and reasonable standard, a fantastic deal for the author and the largest book contract Taylor had ever negotiated by a factor of ten.
    Under the terms of the three-book contract, Michael Schiftmann would receive one-point-five million dollars for the next book in his series, to be called The Sixth Letter . For the seventh installment, he would receive an advance of two-point-five million, and for the eighth book in the series, and last in the contract, he would receive four million.
    “Eight million for three books,” Taylor whispered.
    “Jeez …”
    And, she reminded herself, fifteen percent of that eight million went to Delaney & Associates. One-point-two million in commissions, a percentage of which after expenses would go to Taylor in salary and bonuses.
    Taylor smiled, but behind the smile was an undercurrent of tension. To her credit, Taylor had managed to negotiate a contract that not only provided a hefty advance for each book, but also built in a number of other provisions to protect her client. The contract was what Hollywood called “pay or play,” which meant the advances were nonreturnable. If for any reason—including turning in an unacceptable manuscript—publication of any of the three books was canceled, Michael got to keep the money. If the books exceeded their sales goals, there was a sweet performance bonus built into the deal, but if they failed to meet their targets, Michael in-curred no penalty. The publisher retained most subsidiary rights—foreign, paperback, audio, electronic—but had to split all sub rights revenue with Michael. And on top of that, her client had retained all film and television rights to the books and all the characters appearing in the books, which would mean additional revenue down the road.
    All in all, Taylor felt, this was the kind of contract that would free up an author from ever having to worry about money again. It meant artistic and financial freedom. It was, Taylor mused, what Humphrey Bogart called “fuck you money.”
    But Taylor also knew that this kind of book deal held some intrinsic dangers for an author as well. The industry was full of legendary tales of writers who’d received huge, phenomenal, record-breaking contracts and then crashed and burned. Fame and wealth were deadly if one didn’t have the psychological underpinnings to handle it. Writers were notoriously fragile, which was why in a profession that gave its top practitioners prestige, money, and freedom from the soul-killing strictures of traditional corporate life, there was so much depression, substance abuse, divorce, insanity, and suicide. The occupational hazards were real and very, very dangerous.
    And as far as Taylor could tell, the jury was still out on Michael Schiftmann. Could he handle this? Would his ego explode over his intellect? Would he, in the greatest danger of all, come to believe his own press?
    As Taylor’s eyes strained to read every word of the fine print, she couldn’t help but replay in her own mind that first conversation with Michael Schiftmann when he’d called her office just over five years ago. Taylor had been a literary agent herself for only a short while, having decided after several years as an editorial assistant that spending sixty hours a week for twenty grand a year simply wasn’t worth it.
    Joan called her that late autumn morning and practically shouted, in her usual manner, that she’d made an appointment with a writer from Ohio or Illinois or some such place out there and now didn’t have time to keep it.
    “You talk to