Page 1 of Wolfish Player
THE CEO
ADRIAN
It takes a certain type of author to make me hate publishing books. The rare and uncomfortable loathing comes every blue moon, but whenever it arrives, it’s always because of anindieauthor…
I’ve been running Grey Wolf Publishing since the day my father handed it to me at eighteen, and I’ve grown it from a small newspaper business to a conglomerate that lands books on bestseller charts, runs popular podcast networks, and distributes award-winning films.
I know what it takes to pen a compelling story—all the proper avenues to drive it to success—and yet, every last Friday of the month, I find myself bracing for “Red Flag Day.”
With a senior-level editor, we pull up the list of books we’re owed, analyze which authors are on time versus which ones are not, and then try to figure out what the hell is going on.
Every missed deadline isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a six-figure marketing campaign stalled, an investor breathing down my neck, a brand that looks weaker with every broken promise.
“I’m ready if you are.” Marcia, one of my longest-standing team members, approaches my desk with a coffee. Loyal to a fault, she’s been with me since the early days, sharp enough to anticipate my reactions before I speak. “Let’s start in reverse this time, shall we?”
“Go ahead.”
“First up is Russell Swanson, the social media all-star we signed to a six-figure deal last year,” she says. “He’s penning a highly anticipated sci-fi saga.”
“I remember him.”
“Well, he just turned in his final manuscript, and the editors love his draft, so I’m going to remit part of his payment today.”
“Why is he on our red flag list if he’s not late?”
“He wrote ‘Fuck Adrian Wolfson’ on his dedication page.”
“Tell him I appreciate his offer, but I only fuck women.”
“Do you want me to make him change that page?”
“I’m shocked you’re even asking me that,” I say. “Next author.”
“Shelby Ellington,” she says. “Fantasy author who’s penning the long-awaited Realm of Ruby. She’s asking for another extension.”
“We just gave her one two months ago.”
“Her editor says she really needs it, too.” She tosses me a map of the fictional world. “They’re shifting some things around.”
I glance at the intricately drawn sheet, tracing my fingers from the forsaken mountains to the endless plains.
“Give her one hundred and eighty days to be sure,” I say. “And pair her with another developmental editor for the extra support.”
“Will do.”
We spend the next forty minutes speeding through extension requests, and to my surprise, there aren’t that many today.
“Last up, we have romance.” Her tone suddenly shifts from optimistic to uneasy. “The uh, newest indie romance authors we acquired…”
“I need another cup of coffee first.”
She calls for an intern to refill my cup, and I glance at my printed copy of the list.
Romance is our most profitable genre—the crown jewel of Grey Wolf—but if readers knew half the insane shit these authors pulled behind the scenes, they’d petition to send them to an asylum instead of a book signing.
How the hell can eighteen authors miss their deadlines?
“I’m ready when you are, Mr. Wolfson.” Marcia clears her throat. “Just say the word.”
