American Male Prostitute

How I (Almost) Got A Book Deal Through Sex, Lies, And Deceit

By Wilfried F. Voss

Published by

Copperhill Media
A Division of Copperhill Technologies Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2011 by Copperhill Media

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

Disclaimer

Needless to say but, nevertheless, enforced by legal counsel, what you are about to read is based solely on the author’s dirty fantasies and vivid imagination. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, and events are purely coincidental.

Shame on you if you believe the nonsense I write!

Also needless to say, writing and publishing this book was absolutely possible without the support of the so-called experts in the writing and publishing industry.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all writers, talented, but ignored by the system.

Also credits to Yolanda Campbell who came up with the business strategy of “If you can’t impress them with your knowledge, baffle them with your bull-shit.”

The following represents an unedited version.

Foreword

“I note that you are putting together another masterwork, entitled American Male Prostitute. Might I suggest that you direct a little of that “research” towards yourself, and your own fantasy life?” – From an angry reader of my website FrogenYozurt.Com

The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless writers’ magazine whose title shall not be uttered here. But thinking about it, it was not totally useless, since it enlightened me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing.

To put it in a nutshell, today’s publishing world is divided into two major sections, first the inaccessible pool of traditional publishers, and secondly the help-yourself shark tank represented by the so-called vanity publishers.

Vanity publishers have a significant edge over traditional publishers in regards to brutality, business sense and profitability. They ruthlessly pursue the vast pool of aspiring writers who, in turn, are rejected by traditional publishers or literary agents. Ironically, in the world of traditional publishing authors are rejected not necessarily due to lack of talent, but the use of the wrong font in a manuscript, an insufficient query letter, or other minor shortcomings. Vanity publisher will publish everybody and everything. No questions asked. Just pay your bill, but don’t expect to sell a copy of your book.

Now, take a wild guess which of the two can afford to put major money into full-page advertisement in writers’ magazines. These magazines, like all other publications, sit between a rock and a hard place. They are not only obligated to please their readers but also their advertisers. And here we go again; the sharks keep the upper hand. Aspiring writers are on the losing side, one way or the other, whether they try the traditional or vanity publishing approach.

On top of all that the majority of writers’ magazines are – excuse my French – full of crap. They are full of motivational nonsense to keep the reader happy enough to continue and pursue their quest for stardom. At the same time they keep feeding the sharks.

Just the other day, I found yet another grossly misleading advertisement that made my blood boil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.

Then I remembered the saying “Don’t anger me or I will write a novel about you”, and that is exactly what I did. There is no better weapon than writing a novel about the industry. They deserve it.

And just for the record, no, I never submitted any manuscript to a literary agent or publisher. I didn’t have the time for this nonsense. Consequently, I was never rejected. My point is, my motivation to write this novel does not stem from frustration but mere perverse curiosity.

And, no, I did not get a book deal through sex, lies, and deceit. I don’t have the mandatory good looks, and I am very happily married, and, after all, I run my own publishing business.

Yet, I wondered, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you’re running out of time and mere talent doesn’t cut it?

Prologue

My name is Stuart Martin Berry, and until last week I was an associate editor for one of the largest magazines dedicated to the dream world of writers and poets. Like many of my ex-colleagues, I am also a failed novelist. My first and so far last novel, a thriller titled Rules of Extortion, never made it into publication. That was almost two years ago, and, with my pregnant wife pressing me to get a job that, in fact, created sufficient income, I considered my writing career as being over and done with.

For a short while after my failure, literary agents, snobby bastards that they are, treated me like I was the carrier of a deadly disease. But they turned around and started kissing up to me as soon as I got my job as editor for the above-mentioned magazine. Until then, during an intense three-month period of shamelessly promoting my book, I had learned my lesson on effective bull shitting.

Suddenly, if you believed my job description, I was not a failed novelist, but an accomplished author, who had decided to share his knowledge with the aspiring writer, to offer advice and inspiration. These days you see my photo in various publications, printed or online, identifying me as a top expert on all aspects of fiction writing. My job included, among many other things, writing about writing without being allowed to write something substantial like, let’s say, a novel.

Another essential part of my work as an editor was keeping up a dream world for the tens of thousands of wannabe-writers who made the mistake to subscribe to our magazine or the even more useless online forum.

Let me explain to those not familiar with the publishing business, a writers’ magazine cannot exist without the vast number of delusional writers who will never have the slightest chance of ever being published. In order to have your book published you need to be good and, as I was told from day one, the vast majority of our subscribers weren’t.

I was also directed to keep the information in my articles at a fairly superficial level and use ample motivational nonsense to keep our readers happy, everything to convince a dying man that he will live a long and prosper life.

My personal favorite was a series on dealing with and recovering from rejections, and you can bet most of our readers have been rejected numerous times by agents and publishers alike.

Besides advertisement, we made our main income through online writers’ workshops, and the depthless articles filling our magazine ad nauseam were the best marketing tools. And for God’s sake, I was not to write anything that might interfere with the dubious business of the sharks that paid substantial fees for advertisement in our magazine.

All that wasn’t difficult for me. As I said, bull shitting was one of my acquired talents.

Jilly Cooper once said, the male is a domestic animal, which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things. I am living proof to validate that statement.

Well, the bull shitting time is finally over, and, honestly, I hated every single day. Deep in my soul I am an honest guy. Unfortunately, honesty doesn’t pay the bills.

Fortunately, though, about four weeks ago, my wife Sophie had accepted a job offer for a $150,000 annual salary plus benefits, and I had offered to be a stay-at-home Dad.

Our daughter Magda is now almost two years old, and my wife was itching to get back to her former job as the manager of the Human Resources department of a major insurance company based in Washington, D.C.

I have not yet decided what I will do during the copious spare time between play-group-mornings and afternoon walks in the park. Llysha, another aspiring author and a good friend of mine, had jokingly suggested starting our own publishing business, and she touted BBS, Inc. as the business name. BBS stands for “Baffle them with your Bull-Shit”, and, believe me, the name alone was a guarantee for success in the publishing industry.

To stay with the truth, I am done with writing. I am with Groucho Marx who once said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” Nevertheless, I am burning to take a last hit at the system. It deserves it.

While we’re at it, my name is not Stuart Martin Berry, and events and names have been changed to protect my family, especially my wife. I will tell you about that grotesque period of three months, during which I tried to find a publisher for my book. My wife had given me totally free reins to do whatever it would take to get a book deal. Her only request was not to share any details of how I got there.

Sunday, September 21

I woke up with a headache and checked the alarm clock. It was Sunday at 2:24 in the morning. Sandie and I had been partying all night, and the mixture of alcohol and cigarette smoke was never a good combination for me.

Sandie lay beside me, and, as usual, was totally covered by the light-blue silk blanket. I leaned over and cautiously removed the cover to have another look at her huge, heaving breasts, and I shook my head. Sandie was a very attractive woman, and I was sure her breasts, in their original size and shape, were as perfect as the rest of her body. Why a beautiful woman like her would mutilate her body and have a pound of plastic added to either side is still beyond me. Her argument was, of course, the pursuit of an acting career, and I didn’t question her. After all, she still believed I was the son of the executive director of MGM Studios. I had made the title up on the fly, and I had to play the game.

I pulled the blanket back over her and cautiously stepped off the bed to go to the bathroom. I glimpsed into the mirror and shook my head. I had looked better than the man who stared at me from the other side. I turned to open the bathroom closet and retrieved a bottle of Advil.

For a moment I felt tempted to swallow the entire content but decided against it. I took two pills, walked over to the kitchen section of my Manhattan studio where I threw in the pills and gulped down a glass of water. I shook my head in disgust, and then I just stood there to decide how to go from here.

The choice was between going back to bed or doing something else. That something else, I decided, was to sit on the couch with a large glass of Seltzer and starting up my laptop. I had to be quiet. From where I was sitting I could see the large bed at the other end of the studio, and I was not in the mood to talk to her right that moment.

As a matter of fact, I was already thinking of a way to get rid of her. I still had some confectionary sugar and some bendable straws, which, when arranged in the proper way, would hopefully point to a drug addiction. Honestly, I don’t have any experience with sniffing cocaine, but I have had my fair share of Law & Order on TV.

The set-up had worked with Erin, knowing that her first boyfriend had overdosed a few years ago. It would be a crapshoot with Sandie, though. Chances were, she would never notice the set-up, and even if she did she might not know what it was. Another possibility was that she would be thrilled and jump to get herself a sniff. I determined there were too many unknowns, and I had to come up with a more sinister scenario.

I looked at the computer screen for a few moments, unsure what to do with it. Then I decided to have a last look at the notes I had made during these past three months. Despite the prevailing headache I couldn’t help but grin when I read the first entries. My status as a successful writer was bleak when I arrived here, but on Monday morning I would sign a contract with Sandie’s boss, Jonathan O’Keeffe, one of the heavyweights in the book publishing industry.

That same day I would return to my home and my pregnant wife in Montgomery Village in Maryland. Roughly two weeks later, if everything went according to the doctor’s prediction, we would have our first child, and I was looking forward to it.

Sandie grunted under the silk blanket and turned around, interrupting my frantic typing on the computer, while I was adding to my notes. Then I shook my head. There was no way the hardly noticeable clicking would wake her. She was not a morning person, either. She would sleep until the afternoon if I didn’t wake her, but at the same time I toyed with the thought of simply leaving the studio later this morning. Maybe I should spend some leisure time in Central Park without her, however, not without leaving a romantic note saying something like I didn’t dare to wake the sleeping beauty. She always fell for this kind of stuff. The thought of kicking her out today, or even at this very moment, was tempting, but I needed to wait until I had signed that contract.

I turned my attention back to the computer. It is amazing how the memories and emotions of past events are refreshed when you keep a written record. Some emotions come back as they were, others, in view of the time passed, are different. I also realized how innocent I was then. That had changed profoundly. My experiences with the people in the publishing industry had turned me into a ruthless bastard, and I was good at it. I really had learned to play their game.

Another look at the screen, checking the date of the entry, and I realized that it was three months earlier to the day when we met with Steve, a good friend of ours, to discuss our idea.

Saturday, June 21

Steve arrived late, as usual. Knowing him and his profound lack of punctuality, we had asked him to come by around 6:00 pm but had prepared supper to be served at 7:00. Despite our efforts, he beat us yet again. He arrived at 7:30. I had prepared a black bean soup that, thanks to Steve’s late arrival, needed several refills of chicken broth while simmering on the stove.

“I hope I’m not too late,” he said in an apologetic tone, standing in the entrance door of our home and shaking off the rain from his coat.

“Traffic was hell. You must be starving by now.”

“No, not really,” I answered, chewing on the remains of the baguette my wife and I had started eating a few minutes earlier.

“Come on in, Steve.”

I hung up his coat in the hallway, and led him to the kitchen where we sat down at the large table. Sophie and I had only one bowl of soup. We were not hungry after eating a whole French bread by ourselves. We just sat there, shooting the breeze about this and that, and watched Steve, who seemed to enjoy the soup.

Our friend Steve McCullum is a freelance journalist, and we had invited him to pitch our latest idea to him.

A few months earlier I had finally managed to find an agent who promised to find a publisher for my first novel “Rules of Extortion.” Nevertheless, we, my wife and I, had begun to worry about the slow progress. Then, a few nights ago, my wife, who was in the second trimester of her pregnancy, came up with her proposal.

“Honey,” she called out to me while I was preparing for bed. “We need to make a decision. It is June, and the baby is due October third, which leaves us a little over three months before I leave my job.”

Sophie was the manager of the Human Resources department of a major insurance company just North of Washington, DC. Her annual income was in the neighborhood of $120,000 then, enough to indulge a comfortable lifestyle, and allowing me to follow my dream of becoming a writer. She worked long hours, while I stayed home to write, clean, and cook. Cooking had never been my forte but with the help of a fast Internet connection I managed to find some easy recipes for the cooking-impaired. Let’s not talk about my cleaning skills at this time.

“The merger has gone well so far,” she continued, “but we are reaching a critical milestone. Mergers inflict layoffs, and this is where my expertise is required.”

She sat up in bed, groaning a bit, and stuffing a pillow behind her back. Then she looked at me.

“What I’m trying to say is that I will be buried in work for the next months, most probably all the way to the due date.”

I opened my mouth for a response, but she stopped me by holding up her hand.

“Hear me out,” she said.

“Come October,” she continued, “there will be no income, and we will live from our savings, unless your book hits the jackpot. I doubt it, though, the way things are going at the moment.

“Don’t get me wrong. I do love your novel, and I like your agent – at least what I know of her. But I do have the feeling that we need to power things up a bit to make it happen.

“On the other hand, the savings will not last forever, especially with a baby in the house.”

She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

“Here is what I propose,” she finally said. “Your agent lives in New York City and so does the majority of her contacts in the publishing world.”

She turned toward me.

“I want you to move to New York for the next three months and, with your agent’s support, promote your novel to everybody in the industry. We won’t see much of each other, anyways, so why not do it.”

I thought about it for a few seconds.

“Can we afford doing this?” I asked cautiously.

She nodded.

“I will give you a budget,” she said. “You can use it at your discretion, but I recommend you buy some nice suits, ties, and shoes.”

I frowned.

“I know,” she laughed. “I prefer seeing you in tight jeans and a wife-beater shirt, but as they say, desperate times call for desperate actions. And not to worry, all expenses are tax deductible. I talked to our accountant about this.”

I sat there to think about it a little longer, but the more I thought about it, the more I warmed up to the idea.

“Does the budget include rent for an apartment?” I asked. “Living in a hotel for three months seems a bit excessive.”

She shook her head.

“I have already pulled some strings,” she said. “The company owns an apartment right in Manhattan. You’re going to like it. It comes with a laundry service, security guards, concierge, and exercise facility, the whole enchilada. It is usually reserved for the executive management when they visit the parent company.”

“Great!” I said. “But, if you don’t mind, I would like talk to Steve before I leave. I’m sure he has some insights. I also would like to know what he thinks of the idea.”

“That’s fine by me,” she said.

Then, after a deep sigh, she delivered the bad news.

“There is one catch, though.”

“What is it?”

“If, after those three months, you don’t have a book deal, I want you to find a regular, paying job.”

To tell the truth, I felt stunned for a moment. I am not afraid of working, but suddenly I saw my whole writing career being flushed down the toilet.

Sophie looked uneasy. She knew what she was asking was not easy for me.

“The savings will not last forever,” she explained, “and…”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted her. “I understand.”

I saw her eyes tearing up, and I leaned over to kiss her.

“I love you, Princess,” I said, “and that’s all that counts in my life.”

She smiled, while the tears were running down her cheeks, and she nodded.

I knew how difficult it had been for her to make a choice between a high-paying career and having a baby. We had agreed to start a family long before we got married, but at the same time she enjoyed her work tremendously. We knew we would find a way out of this conflict eventually.

That night I could hardly sleep, and I couldn’t wait to tell Steve. When the time came, he listened to our reasoning without a word, but he nodded occasionally, while working on his third refill.

“So, what do you think?” I asked impatiently as soon as he finished his meal and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Well,” he responded calmly, “to be honest I cannot tell you, yes, this is going to work. Neither can’t I say it won’t. Heck! I sound like a lawyer! Let me say, I would sure as hell like to know how you will be doing.”

He got up, took his empty bowl and put it in the sink where he rinsed it with hot water. Steve can be notoriously late, but he is neat.

“That being said,” he continued, looking at me over his shoulder, “I would say, go for it!”

He turned around and dried his hands on the kitchen towel.

“Go,” he said, “but don’t go without being prepared. You don’t have much time, and to be successful you need to turn to the dark side, Anakin.”

He winked, and I laughed.

“What do you mean?” I asked curiously.

He pointed towards the living room where Sophie had prepared a cheese plate with grapes and apple slices. Next to the plate stood a bottle of Pinot Grigio and three wine glasses.

“Let’s sit down,” he said.

He made himself comfortable on the couch and, casually, pulled his pipe from a pocket within his jacket. Then he realized what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“No, that’s okay,” Sophie laughed at him. “You’re the only person allowed to smoke in our home. We both love the smell of your tobacco.”

Steve, relieved, retrieved the pipe yet again and started the procedure of stuffing the tobacco and lighting the pipe. He took a first, deep drag, while Sophie filled our glasses.

“The essence of it all is,” he started after he was satisfied with the pipe’s performance, “that you have only little time at hand to accomplish what took others years. That means not only, you need to be ruthless, but you also need to know thy target, the publishing industry.”

“First of all,” he continued, “let me state that most people in the publishing industry work hard and they know what they’re doing. There are, however, a great number of inepts, as I call them, and even more sharks, which destroy the good reputation of the industry.

“The real problem, though, comes in form of the big guys in the publishing business looking only at instant profit, and if you as the author cannot deliver it, you’re outta here. There’s nothing wrong about profit thinking, but, in reality, the current system kills the chances for all writers with a less-than-Dan-Brown potential.

“I have never told you this, but many years ago I wrote a novel, and I found a publisher for it. The book sold mere 1,381 copies, a vast disappointment for my publisher who had invested in an initial print-run of 10,000. A sales record like mine makes it virtually impossible to land another contract with any other publisher. My writing career was over.

“Another problem is the great number of inept literary agents, who would reject Ernest Hemingway – if he was still alive – because he did not follow their submission guidelines. Let me add, that agents usually dwell in Hollywood-talk, and, as far as I know Hemingway, he talked straight.

“By the way, how much did you pay for that query letter?”

We had hired a professional service to draft us a query letter to contact literary agents. We learned that without a proper query letter we would have no chance finding an agent. I looked at Sophie, who is the number cruncher in the family.

“About five-hundred Dollars,” she answered. “Including the editing service plus several revisions, mailings, etc., we have spent a total of roughly two-thousand Dollars so far.”

Steve nodded like he had anticipated the answer.

“You see,” he said, “you need to spend a substantial amount of money before the industry even raises a finger to support you. And when you are published, they even expect you to take over most of their marketing activities – on your own expenses, of course.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense to look into self-publishing?” Sophie asked. “I mean, with the money and efforts involved, what is the real difference between looking for a publisher or just doing it all by yourself?”

Steve smiled.

“There speaks the business woman,” he said. “You have a valid point, and, in fact, there is a growing tendency towards self-publishing. However, the harsh reality is that the average self-publisher does not sell more than five hundred copies, and most of them are given away to friends and family.

“In all consequence, don’t underestimate the power of the established publishing businesses when it comes to bringing your book into the market. I would still go the conventional way rather than doing everything myself.”

He moved to pick up another piece of cheese and took a sip of wine.

“You mentioned the sharks in the business,” I reminded him. “Who are they?”

“Oh, they are everywhere,” he grinned. “There is one very important fact you need to know. There is a massive market for those who prey on the unsuspecting, aspiring writer. This is a billion Dollar business in the United States alone, because, nowadays, everybody wants to be a writer.”

He pointed to the stack of magazines on the side table.

“I see you have subscribed to my most favorite useless magazine. Toss it over, please.”

On top of the stack lay the latest issue of a magazine dedicated to writers. I picked it up and handed it to Steve, who took it and paged through it.

“Not that I need to look for an example,” he said with a devilish smile on his face. “Almost every page is full of them. Unfortunately, these guys are in no position to live without bad and misleading advertisement.”

It took him a few seconds before he felt satisfied with what he found.

“Here we go!” he said. “Look at this.”

We saw the headline in big letters – Job Security, Freedom of Freelancing, Hiring Freelance Writers, Apply Today!

“Looks like a good opportunity to make some good money as a writer,” Sophie looked at me. “Why didn’t you apply? You’re a good writer.”

“Oh, don’t!” Steve protested. “In business jargon they’re called a ‘content aggregators’ or, in not as polite terms, a ‘writer’s sweatshop.’ Their main purpose is to produce content for their websites or those of their clients. You will work for far less than minimum wage, and you might be better off flipping Hamburgers at a fast food joint. Also, by voluntarily working for a sweatshop you help them stay in business, and, even worse, victimizing other writers. In all consequence, you will quickly become a part of the problem. But besides my ideological view there are other obstacles.

“You see, there are some very smart business people at work, and they are extremely resourceful when it comes to lure more writers to work for them. They give you the impression that you can write everything you are passionate or knowledgeable about, let’s say, politics, environmental issues, history, and such. The truth is, even though politics is one of the categories they offer, the vast majority of their work opportunities are for writing articles on operating a dishwasher, changing the spark plugs on a John Deere lawnmower, and more of the same nature. They give you the manufacturer’s text, you re-word the whole thing, and you may make a measly fifteen Dollars a pop, but mostly it’s less than that, more like five Dollars in most cases. They promise, you can build your reputation, because your name appears under each article. I fail to understand, how writing about dog whistle training techniques, and more of the same nonsense helps a writer to gain reputation.”

He noticed our disbelieving expression, and he added, “I kid you not. That article has been written, as was one about drawing a Greek helmet.”

Steve shook his head and continued turning pages.

“Look at this here,” he called out. He seemed aggravated.

“This is an article where they interviewed the CEO of this dubious business.”

He pointed to a paragraph.

“This is where they write about him bragging – and I quote, ‘Most of our writers don’t even create enough income in one month to pay their weekly grocery bill, let alone a mortgage.’

“Well, you can play the system and make a living with rearranging some words in less than an hour and post the result virtually unchanged as your own work. However, this is only the beginning. As I said, there is a lot more.”

He went through some more pages, and then showed us another advertisement.

He grinned, “I could go on for hours about this magazine, but I’ll spare you most of it.”

“This is their largest advertiser,” he continued, holding up the magazine showing a full-page advertisement. “They promise, they will publish your book, and, really, they will. You will get a listing on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and other online bookstores. They also insist they do the cover design for you and that comes with a price, of course. They will press you skillfully into buying their editing service and their useless marketing kit. They squeeze easily several thousand Dollars out of every unsuspecting writer without any concern whether the book has a chance in the market or not. They only want your best, and that’s your money.”

“How much are the royalties?” asked Sophie, “I mean, provided you actually produce some sales.”

“If you’re clever – and most writers aren’t business people – you do some research to find out what other works in your genre go for. Then you subtract the printing cost and the publisher’s share. You may end up in the negative, so you increase the sales price, and then you end up in an unacceptable price range. I am sorry, but it’s a lose-lose situation. To answer your question, the royalties per book are most probably in the neighborhood of a couple of Dollars, provided the sales price is somewhat competitive.”

Sophie made some calculations in her head.

“So,” she said, “Let’s assume you spent about three-thousand Dollars. Is that a reasonable number?”

Steve nodded. “Oh, absolutely! If you add the registration fee, the editing service, marketing, and the cover design, you’ll get there easily.”

“Okay,” Sophie continued. “Assuming you make about two Dollars profit per book, you must sell 1,500 books before you even start to make profit for yourself.”

“As I said before,” Steve responded, “selling more than five-hundred books is extremely hard for the self-publisher, and, in all consequence, that’s what they still are. The so-called publisher doesn’t do anything for you, unless you pay for it. They provide a service for money, but they are not publishers in the traditional sense. The official term is Vanity Publisher.”

“But,” I intervened, “isn’t it possible that your novel gets some publisher’s attention and they would like to take it over?”

Steve emphatically shook his head.

“No way!” he said. “Any self-published book is automatically tagged with a red flag. Self-publishing, in view of the traditional publishing world, is a synonym for lack of talent.

“And even if your book sells well, and you try to offer your second novel to them, they treat you like you have a deadly virus. Don’t ask why. For a normal human being with a basic sense for business, just like you and me, nothing really makes sense in the publishing world.”

He leaned toward me.

“But seriously, I am not saying, everything they do is wrong, but the people in the publishing world, especially literary agents, have developed their own, specific social patterns. If you want to beat the system within three months you need to play their spiel. You need to be ruthless. Actually, you need to go beyond ruthless. You need to turn to the dark side.”

He sat back, grinning, and puffing his pipe.

“Can you do that, Stuart?” he asked. “Can you play a ruthless game?”

“Well,” I answered, “we have already made the decision, and I still like the idea, especially in view of the three month limit. I don’t want to give up without a fight.”

Steve nodded. “I think you should try it. After all, you have a brain, and, if I might add, you got the looks. It might just work.”

We remained silent for a little while to digest what had been said, and then we turned our conversation to more delightful topics. It was after midnight when Steve left, and Sophie and I went to bed soon thereafter.

Before she turned off the light, Sophie turned to me.

“I would like to add one more thing to your New York adventure,” she said. “Please, take what I will tell you now without a response or question. I want to say it once and only once.”

She sighed.

“Steve said, in order to be successful, you need to be beyond ruthless. I believe that he is right, and I want you to be successful.”

She closed her eyes.

“When we start this little endeavor, we will apply a strict Don’t-ask Don’t-tell policy. I would like you to know that, in those three months, you should do whatever it takes. You have my permission to do anything, and I mean anything. There is only one rule: Don’t ever tell me what you did. Just get the damn contract.”

With these words she turned around and turned the light off.