I Give All My Gold

Southeast Portland 
 "You do." He replied, forgoing the question and setting down the compliment like a well-placed bear trap. Bending, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and made a point of fishing around, though her printed manuscripts were at the very top. Taking them out, he set them on the table between them. "Your work is visceral, I'll give you that. And darker than one would expect."

 He flipped through the pages. "Do these ideas come to you in any particular way?" Some claimed dreams, others meditation. But a few liked to twist their own experiences, refashioning reality to fiction.

 Well, that question was a bottle neck - hard to land an answer that would satisfy across the board entirely. Something generic about her imagination was like a glass of room temperature water, easy to digest perhaps but bland as could be. Anything else risked tipping into waters brackish with implications that bordered on less than decent.

 "A mix. Typically they come as a base idea on their own and then I mold them from there - past experiences, my own imagination ... I think sitting and suggesting that by this day and age any one thing is original is just stupid."

 "Certainly. It's more about the art of stealing than trying to birth something totally new." Too much of any one influence and you had, at best, a tired story, and at worst, a lawsuit. But whatever she'd gleaned from her own research and readings was sprinkled deftly enough to be unique.

 Finding no additional reason to be coy other than his own desire to keep her in suspense, Spencer broke his gaze away from the angular lines of her face to stare at the printed pages. "This is publishable work. I can have the contracts written up by next week."

 She managed to keep her poker face in place, the only sign of proper excitement being how she inhaled deep, the wiggle of the ankle of the foot she had crossed and just out of view by the desk. "Wonderful. I'm glad to see some good come from that whole market fiasco." The blame not pointed with neon and flashing lights, but implied all the same.

"Do you need anything further from me?"

 "Not right now." He replied smoothly, taking her manuscripts and putting them back in his desk. She seemed very much like the type of person who not only enjoyed poking a sleeping bear, but stabbing it too. Happy to let the dead market horse rot, he took a sip of his coffee. "I'll be in touch when we have an initial version. We'll provide the cover art, and once we know the market I can let you know what your advance is going to be. Until then, enjoy your typewriter." Perhaps it wasn't dead after all.

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