By David Collins
Simply once we really want it, a scathingly humorous novel that skewers the ego-driven, morally bankrupt global of the large Deal Billionaire Robert Maxx is a king on the planet of genuine property. Prestigious structures endure his identify, the clicking treats him like royalty, and gorgeous girls are extremely joyful to be noticeable on his arm. Ruthless, bullying, vengeful, and but, now and then, improbably endearing, Maxx either repels and fascinates. For author David Collins, issues aren't so rosy. His novels did not promote. His marriage fell aside. Scrabbling for a livelihood, he is grew to become to ghostwriting. while he will get the gig to crank out Maxx's subsequent bestseller, he regards the task as not anything greater than a simple payday. yet whatever occurs. The storyteller in Collins takes over, and he realizes that this is not yet one more hack task. it can be his final likelihood to put in writing whatever of actual worth, reclaim his battered self-respect, and win again the ex-wife he nonetheless loves. opposed to the all-too-real heritage of a cratering economic climate and the top of straightforward funds, issues begin to collapse for Maxx. because it turns into transparent that his potent empire was once equipped on lies, hucksterism, and doubtful accounting, the level is determined for lethal clash among a fallen idol desirous to hide the reality and a author passionate about an within tale that simply he can inform.
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I was pretty sure I saw a twinkle, reinforced by just the slightest curling of full and purplish lips. I provisionally concluded that Jenna would be an ally. I strongly suspected I would need one. She led me through a maze of corridors to her office. I tried to read the corporate codes to figure out where she stood in the empire. She was no mere assistant, because she had an assistant—two, in fact, both of whom sat outside her office in cubicles whose low walls were padded in pearl-gray cloth. Her own space was more than comfy, if not resplendent.
People rarely trouble to look past what they already think they know. For better or worse, however, I had a book to write, and if there was to be any chance at all of making it a worthwhile book—a book, for starters, that would keep me entertained during the months that I’d be living with it—then I had to get beyond the image, chip away at the heavy varnish that had been slathered on the icon, and get back to flesh and blood. That wasn’t going to happen while I was sitting on my ass in front of a computer screen in the threadbare comfort of my own apartment.
Its dark bulk in such a modest room had some of the glorious improbability of a sailboat in a bottle; getting it out again was almost inconceivable. I rang the front doorbell and entered on the answering buzz. Claire was standing in the hallway when I’d made it to her landing. At the first glimpse of her, I felt what I always feel but try to deny: I felt like I was 30 | DAV I D C O L L I N S coming home. It’s a stupid and self-lacerating thing to feel about a person you’re not married to anymore, but there it is.