Page 1 of The Author

Chapter 1

Kyle

The intense feeling of elation was an emotion that I couldn’t control. The sheer pleasure of typing the end is always overwhelming. My fingers were still poised over my keyboard.

Did I do the right thing for the ending of the book? How would this be perceived by the critics?

I minimised my screen and searched online for the author who wrote similar horror novels. Annoyingly, his name auto-filled in the search bar.

Jason Proctor was a motherfucking dickhead extraordinaire in being a petty little bitch.

I ran my hand through my hair and grimaced. It felt grimy. I’d been working non-stop for the last five days. I needed to get this book completed to catch this year's Halloween season.

The publishing house takes its time in checking manuscripts. I can feel the anxiety just thinking about the rest of the process I still needed to endure.

It took me two years to get my act together and get this far. I’ve had nothing but pressure from the publishing house, my fans and my fucking brain trying to sabotage my work.

I shook the thoughts away. It was done now.

I scrolled through the book listings and the publication dates. The wanker had a new one due out close to my set publication date. I checked the prices and his last book release reviews. I scanned through the blurb. It wasn't a bad storyline. I stifled the rush of jealousy I felt and checked for the one-star reviews. They always made me feel better. I smirked at the list of scathing reviews.

We clashed at a book signed seven years ago, and professional courtesy swiftly vanished after that. He was heading towards his late fifties. I could only hope he died soon or developed an untreatable eye condition.

Prick.

My masterpiece may have taken almost two years to complete, but it was time well spent. I stretched my aching back out. My work wasn’t over yet. I may have completed the first draft, but I needed to go through it several times before it would be in the condition that is acceptable to Rathbourne Publishing House’s standards.

I’d always had a fascination for horror and gore. When I got sick and tired of my boring office job fifteen years ago, I took a risk by taking a writing course. My new career was going exceptionally well, and I didn’t need to write any more books from the amount I received in royalties, but the stories that lived inside my head never went away. They sat there like a disease in my brain. The characters and scenes come at me repeatedly until I have no choice but to write. Starting was the easy part. Finishing a manuscript was the difficult part. I winced, thinking of all the books I’d started that were tucked away on my iCloud.

The last four years have been harder to cope with. It started with my mother passing away. She had been the only human I hadn’t been a complete asshole to. It didn’t matter what life hit you with. Deadlines and commitments didn’t change.

The stress began to eat away at the enjoyment I used to find in my work. At times, I felt I wasn’t good enough and deserved all the condemnation my work received. Other times, it incited nasty fits of intense rage that could go on for days.

Why couldn’t people see the direction and creativity of my brain? Why couldn’t they understand my characters?

It didn’t matter that I was an established author with several bestsellers worldwide. It had taken me years to learn how to accept constructive criticism not just from the publishing house but from readers.

In general, people were fucking snowflakes. Why read a horror and then get offended by the horrific content? Everyone seemed to be so easily offended these days.

Fucking pussies.

I stared down at my laptop screen. I had put two years into this book and little to no social life. I've barely left my home, let alone the small village I hide away in.

I felt disgusting. Before I did anything, I needed a shower.

???

My food had been delivered by the time I had showered and changed. It was a sad Indian meal, for one. My obsessive need to write day and night ensured any remaining friends and family members had been pushed away. It suited me just fine.

I didn’t have the brain capacity for my work and people. I could sustain myself with an internet connection and caffeine.

As I opened up the containers, I wondered if the gore in this book had been too much. The more time I had in my self-imposed solitary confinement, the darker my thoughts had become.

My obsession with war crimes, serial killers and the supernatural continued to fascinate me. When I researched for my books, nothing affected me emotionally. Evil was open and honest.

All these fucking good samaritans in the media got off to their self-righteous so-called good deeds. They were nothing but hypocrites. If you dug deep enough, there always seemed to be something a little more insidious.

I grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. I needed to relax tonight. I had another few heavy days of work ahead of me, but at least I could sleep tonight.

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