By Blood Written by Steven Womack Page B

along with a synopsis as a proposal.
    “This is something completely new and different,” he explained. “I’ve spent the last five years writing good books that went nowhere. I learned what made a good mystery, a good crime novel, and I used that to write books that got me great reviews, awards, prizes. Everything a writer could want, except one thing: a living. So I’m breaking molds here, Ms. Robinson. What I’ve got here is the first in a projected series of twenty-six novels, which means if we make this work, we’ve both got job security for the next couple of decades. This is something nobody’s ever seen before. At least not like this …”
    He handed her the stack of papers. Taylor read the title page: The First Letter .
    “So,” Taylor asked, “what’s the one-sentence pitch?”
    Michael looked at her. “In the battle between good and evil,” he said, “evil wins.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Is your series protagonist likable, sympathetic?”
    “He’s a brutal, sadistic serial killer,” Michael answered.
    “And you’re going to love him.”
    Taylor pursed her lips, stared down at the manuscript, and let out a long sigh. “That’s a tall order, Mr. Schiftmann. Usually the bad guy loses and that makes people feel good. Af-firms their moral view of life.”
    “This book’s going to change their moral view of life.”
    “Hmm,” she said. “Again, tall order.”
    “Give it a try,” he said, motioning toward the manuscript.
    “It works.”
    “Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”
    Taylor felt the manuscript in her hands, thumbed through the first few pages and saw that it was professionally prepared, that it had the feel of a manuscript done by a pro. You could tell a lot, Taylor knew, about the look of a manuscript.
    When a novel came in typed single-spaced on onion-skin paper with handwritten corrections and hand-drawn illus-trations, it was almost always as badly written as it was prepared.
    “So tell me, Mr. Schiftmann,” she asked casually. “Where do you want to be as a writer?”
    “At the top,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “On The List.”
    Neither of them had to elaborate about which list he was referring to. She eyed him for a second. He didn’t appear delusional or crazy, just determined. She wondered if he knew what he was in for. She found herself feeling protective toward him, as if she could somehow shelter him from the price one paid for that kind of success.
    “Can you get me there?” he asked. “Can we go there together?”
    “That depends,” Taylor said, looking down at the manuscript. “It all depends on the pages.”
    “Fair enough,” Michael Schiftmann said. “I’m staying at the Midtown Motor Lodge on Eighth Avenue and Fifty-sixth. I’ve got enough money to stay two more days, and then I’m on the dog back home. I’d sure like to know something before I leave, if that’s possible.”
    “And where is home?” Taylor asked.
    “Barberton, Ohio,” Michael replied.
    “Never heard of it,” Taylor admitted.
    “Nobody has. It’s working class, industrial. Close to Cleveland.”
    “Oh,” Taylor said.
    “Yeah.”
    Taylor stood up, offered him her hand. He took it and held it firmly as they shook.
    “Mr. Schiftmann, I’ll call you.”
    Perhaps it was that Taylor Robinson had only about a dozen clients on her roster, not one of which was actually making a living as a writer. Perhaps it was something in Michael Schiftmann’s eyes or voice or the way he stood or the way he sat that convinced her he was somehow different from the parade of frustrated novelists who moved from agent to agent like hungry wolves roaming an unforgiving landscape. In any case, Taylor spent the rest of the afternoon reading Michael Schiftmann’s book proposal, and after that she called a friend who worked at the publishing house that had published his first five books.
    Taylor Robinson learned that Michael Schiftmann’s agent had never pushed