The national release of my first novel finally happened. My name is Lorenzo Basque, I used to be a novelist and now I’m broke! I even did the stupid book signing at Barnes & Noble in Union Square. I was happy during that moment and so glad that I realized my writing ambition. But something unforeseen (Within my imagination at least) occurred in the middle of all of this. My novel didn’t sell a single copy. The publishing house dropped me immediately. The $250,000 advance which I received shrunk faster than a road runner. After losing the publishing deal, went to a period of severe depression and not wanting to get out of bed for weeks, I also ended up spending it on endless drinking and drugs. I was eventually forced to give up my one bedroom apartment in East Village and used airbnb.com to rent weekly co-ed dorms in Brooklyn and Queens. And the most interesting part is, people whom I thought are friends and family disappeared like comets. I guess that’s just the most common human nature, when people see that you’re no longer a success, and you’re down and out, they don’t wanna be bothered or part of it. I must say that the experience itself is also liberating. I also forced myself to get a job in Midtown working at the mailroom earning $11 per hour. Which was a far cry from the money that I used to have. But I’m a survivalist, I have the ability to rise up above my own ashes after a catastrophe. Though I still get bouts of depression from time to time. I’m still standing up. I was tempted again to resort to cocaine and heroin, but then I looked at my own reflection in the mirror and wasn’t able to recognize myself. That was fucking scary. I overcame my drug habits but still continue to smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol occasionally. I also continued to apply for corporate jobs since a chunk of my day job experience falls in that arena and it pays better than $11 an hour. I guess if I find a $40K corporate salary job at the moment, I’ll feel a little better.

The only person who’s still in contact with me right now is none other than my literary agent, Sonia Groff. She checks up on me once a week to make sure I haven’t slashed my wrist or hanged myself. I’m really impressed that there still people like Sonia, she continues to encourage me to keep on writing fiction despite the fact that my first novel completely flopped. The truth is, writing fiction became a struggle for me after my literary collapse and I’m stuck writing poetry and my fucking journal. I try to write short stories whenever I can, but most of the time, I’m concentrated on poetry. I’m hoping to write a novella or something that’s shorter than a novel and give Sonia a call. I’m sure she will be pleased that I’m writing again.

On a quiet Sunday morning something hit me, I woke up at 5:30 in the morning and hopped on the subway train to Manhattan. I was still staying at a co-ed dorm house in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. The place is cheap and my $11 an hour job affords it. While on the train, an idea came into me. An image of a beautiful young woman, long dark hair, piercing grey eyes, porcelain skin, carrying a suitcase, wearing a silk white dress, appears in my mind. Something tells me that she’s a world traveler and has walked the streets of Stockholm, Geneva, Berlin, Paris, London, Buenos Aires, Rio De Janeiro, Tokyo, Shanghai, Casablanca, and her latest stop, New York City. She’s not human, she has a condition of immortality, she’s been alive for 500 years. And every decade, she needs to move to a different city, change her name and identity and most of all, she wants to prevent anyone from knowing anything about her. It’s pretty much a question of life. How would you handle immortality if you have it?

TO BE CONTINUED…