After writing the last word I felt I’d made it. In front of me there were tons of papers making up my last novel, a half-drank glass of wine, and what I will use to sign my work. No, it wasn’t a pen or a pencil.

I picked up the strangely weighed gun and aimed at my own head with it. In the presence of my characters, I put my finger on the trigger. This draft won’t be rejected, whatever it costs.

The detonation marked the beginning of my career towards literary greatness.