Love Me, Need Me: A Narcissist's Tale
By Lisa Maliga
()
About this ebook
Meet Arlen J. Stevenson, an author of three zombie novels. This middle-aged good ol' boy from Alabama spends much of his time chasing women. Whenever he meets a new conquest, he presents her with a gift bag filled with sexy black lingerie. Also pursuing women online, he's led to correspond with a Los Angeles-based writer of term papers, Helena Hoffman. She isn’t aware of what Arlen is as she only sees his amusing and entertaining side in their daily email messages.
Told in alternating points of view, we see Arlen’s self-absorbed lifestyle as he endeavors to screw his numerous catches all over the South. Helena and Arlen get friendlier via their online communication, and he invites her to be his personal manager because of her communications skills, gullibility factor, and location. She launches a MySpace site for his new company. Soon he realizes there are thousands of available women in his region alone. Helena is aware of his perpetual cheating and decides to investigate it in person. What happens after that is alternately scary and darkly humorous.
This controversial book contains graphic sexual content and language.
Lisa Maliga
Lisa Maliga is an American author of contemporary fiction and cozy mysteries. Her nonfiction titles consist of how to make bath and body products with an emphasis on melt and pour soap crafting. When researching her fourth cozy mystery, she discovered the art of baking French macarons. She has written three dessert cookbooks, including two on macarons. When not writing, Lisa reads an assortment of books, takes photos, skates, and is working on a series of baking and soaping books and video tutorials.
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Love Me, Need Me - Lisa Maliga
Chapter 1
Arlen J. Stevenson
October 2004
I pulled the Truckin' Temple of Love, my just-washed pickup, into the parking lot outside of the Kings Country Buffet. Since I was a horror novelist extraordinaire, number one ladies man, possess one of the highest IQ's in the state, was eligible for MENSA but they charged money for their dadblasted membership, I'm considered one of the most respected and celebrated citizens of Jefferson City, Alabama. It was almost humbling how people treated me whenever I showed up for my weekly dinner at the best buffet in the entire county. And it made me glad as hell that I was just a simple ol' country boy from nearby Lapville, population 712. I sure had come up in the world, and then some.
My clean white imitation Nikes hit the pavement and I hurried inside the familiar restaurant. I glanced down, making certain that the insignia I'd spent thirty minutes gluing on was firmly in place. I was smart; they only cost me twelve bucks, so it was worth it. Shit, not like those $130 things I'd seen online. If my feet looked good, I looked good. And that I did, being a hair under six feet, I sported a wavy brown mullet and wore my best chino britches I found down at Slim's Department Store, a place that hadn't changed much since it was opened back in the same year I graduated from high school – 1976. Style never went out of fashion, and I was damn proud to wear clothing that was made in the United States of America.
I loved the atmosphere of the Kings Country Buffet with the richly paneled plywood walls and the burgundy squares of indoor/outdoor carpeting cushioning the floor. Due to my high-ranking status within the publishing world, I naturally demanded and received preferential treatment. Milton, the manager, always gave me the best seat in the house—twenty feet from the buffet table.
I deserve this; I thought, as I strode past two hunched over old folks clutching their senior citizen coupons since it was Monday night. I'm Arlen J. Stevenson, and I love to be treated like a star! I love being able to eat whatever I want, whenever I want it. And tonight I'm gonna meet Miss Tanya, my internet correspondent of three days.
Over in the corner a trio of young waitresses wearing red and black uniforms, were giggling at my arrival. The tallest of them, a buxom red haired woman named Big Red, wanted me, but since she worked three jobs and had four rugrats, she never could find the time. She was whispering to her coworkers about how handsome I was and how she just couldn't wait to have me when she got some free time.
There was laughter and smiles as I comfortably settled into the crimson plastic booth that enabled me to survey all that went on. My timing was truly impeccable, as just then Miss Tanya, a well-preserved divorcee in her blooming middle years, nervously approached the table, leaning forward in anticipation. Since I'm the personification of the courtly Southern Gentleman, I stood up, warmly shook her hand, pumping it a few times, thinking that soon I'd be pumping her a lot harder where it mattered, and relaxed my grip. I then went for the killer move – a chivalrous kiss on the back of her veiny hand.
Darlin', Miss Tanya! You're even more beautiful than your pictures!
I exclaimed. I leered at her, seeing her bright pink britches were so tight that she had camel toe, and I knew with great certainty that those pussy pink britches would be lying on the floor next to her bed along with the rest of our clothes.
She was so nervous that she kept licking her thin little lips clean of her lipstick, and it brought home the fact that I was truly famous! I loved it when fans were in awe of me!
Big Red came over and took our drink orders, Darlin, I'll have the Australian chardonnay, and my lady here would like…
I nodded at Miss Tanya who was staring at me open mouthed.
Why Arlen, I'm not sure…I'll have what you're having!
Arlen, you know good and well that we don't serve wine, beer or spirits here. This is a family buffet!
said the red haired waitress.
I smiled. Hmmm, I guess that means that the Pinot Noir is out of the question then? Along with the Black Raspberry Merlot?
Big Red's curls shook as she firmly replied: Yes, Arlen, Coke, Sprite, Diet Coke, Diet Sprite, lemonade, orangeade, strawberry soda, coffee, tea, and water.
No Black Raspberry Merlot---I guess I'll have your delicious strawberry soda?
I winked at my dinner partner. Miss Tanya, how does that sound to you?
She giggled. Why, Arlen, it don't make no difference. I'm jes' a country gal and I'll have whatever you're having!
I had to stop myself from looking at my mock Rolex watch; but the signs were mounting—soon I'd be like a wild stallion mounting his mare…
After the soft drinks arrived, elegantly poured into tall crimson pebbled plastic cups, I stood, following my date as we moseyed towards the well lit buffet table. I was showing off my latest conquest, er, lady friend, and saw that people were noticing me, and then turning to whisper to their tablemates about how great it was to be able to share the same restaurant with a notorious author. I waved at ol' Burt who always was there just as Kings Country Buffet opened at five o'clock and managed to stay there until closing six hours later. Not that I'd ever done the exact same thing…
An old couple smiled fondly and me, and I see a huge helping of molasses baked beans on their plates and I knew they'd be entertaining themselves and expanding the universe.
The lovely Miss Tanya and I were sharing some pretty tight spatial relations as we crowded next to the eager old folks hankering for another slice of the meat loaf, which seemed a tad heavy on oatmeal filler. I gallantly added a large hunk on my own plate first, before remembering that I had to impress Miss Tanya enough to share some sack time. She wasn't much of an eater, I thought, going by the fact that she had only one chin and no rolls of stomach fat; a pleasant change from last week's dining companion. Soon, our plates were full of the eatery's specialties like Vienna sausage and beans, grits, beets, sauerkraut, fried chicken, ham and gravy and, for any native southerner, spoon bread, corn bread, and flaky biscuits. I needed both hands to carry my plate back.
When we returned to the table, I set my plate down and helped her into the booth and took a paper napkin, unfurling it and placing it on her lap. We sat down and began our dinner, and I noticed she took dainty bites of her food. Miss Tanya also displayed intense interest in what I had to say as I ate heartily.
I was the biggest baby in Jefferson County!
I stated, reaching down into my britches pocket, I pulled out my new Crimson Tide wallet. I removed a yellow slip of laminated newsprint and pretended to read from it, but honestly, I memorized the contents long ago. Arlen Jacob Stevenson came into this world on May 28th weighing a hefty 14 pounds 8 ounces…
Miss Tanya had stopped picking at her spoon bread and stared at me.
…and this is the couple's first baby,
I showed her the grainy photograph of my family, and even in that black and white picture I was just cute as hell.
She nodded, When my first son was born he weighed eight pounds nine ounces and I thought that was big.
I returned the newspaper clipping to my wallet and grinned. Miss Tanya, I've always been a big boy.
A glance at my watch set my mind to contemplating the night's events. The trash talking had to improve quickly. I was out of condoms and Fred's Discount Drugs closed at nine o'clock. The woman had barely managed to finish half the contents on her plate. She applied her lipstick and it was a hot pink shimmery color kinda like a baboon's ass. Miss Tanya was droning on about her life in town, her job, and I heard:
Receptionist…alimony…car…ex-husband…cheater…daughter-in-law…school…
but they were all words, subjects, I'd heard before. Hell, I knew her story; every woman I'd met online or offline had told it to me. They were all middle aged, divorced, single, separated, unhappily married, hell, even a few widows. Some watched more TV than others. Some read magazines and even books. Some had hobbies. Some of 'em were religious. But it didn't matter; they all had one thing in common – an intense desire for me.
God, I'd driven around the southeast a lot lately. Not just my home state of the beloved Crimson Tide foot ball team, but on pussy patrol, I made forays into Georgia, Florida, the Carolinas, Tennessee, Virginia, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, hell, even as far north as Kentucky. I was always in search of that prized pussy. Now I had a piece of local meat sitting across from me, and all I could do was think of how to get the hell over to the drug store so she could pick up my preferred condoms. I tuned in to her soliloquy, found the opening, and let loose…
Darlin', I think we need to continue this conversation somewhere more private…
Miss Tanya beamed, Why, yes, Arlen I was just about to suggest that myself. Why don't you follow me back to my house, and…
House? Hell, it was turning out to be a helluva a night after all. No skanky trailers or lil' one roomers. Didn't have to spend $29.95 for that motel room over at the Wink Wink Nudge Nudge Motor Inn! Hot damn, Miss Tanya had a house!
I stood just as Big Red made her last sweep over to retrieve our plates, and I reached into my wallet and removed a crisp new one-dollar bill. I left it on the table beneath the receipt and went over to Miss Tanya, allowing her to take my hand as I had to restrain myself from half lifting her up and over to me. Hell, I was gettin' hotter by the minute, what with the big meal filling my belly and my woman-dessert staring adoringly up at me. I was gonna be slicing off a big ol' piece of sweet southern peach pie within the hour if we could just get our heinies marching a little faster over to the store and then back to her house…
At 8:56, our vehicles drove into the parking lot of the drug store. Her Ford Taurus was parked next to the handicapped slot, and she strode into the store. I sat in my pickup and made certain The Gift Bag was there on the passenger's side floor, and watched her disappear inside. There had been a frown or two from her when I'd sweetly suggested that she go inside and buy the lubricated Trojan Magnums, and yes, I'd reimburse her in the morning but I was a bit short on cash at that very second. No honey, I didn't want to stop at the bank machine, I wanted to make sure I safely followed her home 'cause you never knew what was out there at this time of night…
Miss Tanya returned, fastening her purse, obviously having put the purchase inside it, and tightly smiling at me. I turned on the ignition, and soon I was following her closely behind, the sensation of the cool autumn night brewing all around me as I'd opened the windows. I was feeling so good, and soon I'd be feeling the best a man could possibly feel…
Driving up to her little ranch house in a respectable part of town, I saw it wasn't as good as mine, but it was sufficient. I parked my truck off to the side of the driveway beneath the basketball goal. Inside, I had to deal with her making coffee, but I was in no need of caffeine; I was in need of some shaky pudding. Pink pudding. Miss Tanya's sweet, skank-free pudding that hadn't been shaken in a few months, or better, a few years. I always preferred a lady who'd give it up for me after she'd been living a celibate lifestyle; she was more desperate, uh, more willing to do whatever I wanted.
And when the charade finally came to a stop and she put her coffee mug in the sink, and when I followed her into the bedroom, the pretensions disappered. The box was handed to me and I was free to remove one and get to work making my evening come to the best kind of conclusion it could.
Miss Tanya, y'know that you're so special, and I just knew that you'd….
I did my sensitive heming/hawing bit.
Why Arlen, I know you respect me as a lady. I knew that from the very first email.
She moved a little closer.
Miss Tanya, can you hold on for one minute, please?
I was feeling so horny I didn't think I'd be able to wait that long. I have a present for you…
I turned and left and almost ran out of the kitchen and down the short hallway and outside to my truck.
The Gift Bag. It was appropriately pussy pink. Had some fancy dancy matching tissue paper sticking out of it. I'd originated the idea last year, and it had been a whopping success whenever I met one of my gal pals. I'd invested a few hundred dollars at a lingerie shop and had bought the most erotic items that tented up my britches. Anything black, and anything black and sheer was even better. Bras, panties, corsets, and skimpy nighties, lace slip with garters, lace thongs, teddies, and babydolls. It was a nice investment. The lucky lady was gallantly presented with The Gift Bag, and she eagerly tried things on, as I had made sure that the sizes were as appropriate as possible. She was always delighted to oblige my fantasy, and hers, by trying on just about every piece of sexy lingerie I'd given
her. It helped put me in that state of ecstasy with the chosen lady, whenever she slipped on a nightie or pulled on a pair of lacy black thong panties.
After the fun time had ended and I was gearing up to go, I always made certain that plenty of smooching and hugging took place so that I could retrieve The Gift Bag and spirit it away so she never noticed at the time. I managed to get it back in my possession. And when I got back home, I washed everything that had been worn. Like I said, it was quite a deal.
When I returned bearing The Gift Bag, Miss Tanya's face lit up just like that proverbial Christmas tree. My word, she was honing in on that bag like it was filled with diamonds and pearls. And hell, in a way it was. My family jewels sure enjoyed the sight of a happy woman, who was gonna be even happier as soon as we were in her bedroom.
Miss Tanya had taken hold of The Gift Bag and was already in her bedroom, which I paid no attention to other than the one piece of furniture I cared about – the bed. She was sorting through the bag; the woman was really looking through everything.
Arlen, you want me to change right here in front of you?
Miss Tanya, I want you to change wherever you want. You're the star here and I can only be your spotlight.
You have such a way with words, Mr. Author Man!
she chuckled.
I wondered if she'd ask me for an autographed copy of one of my books? That was usually what happened in such intimate surroundings. The exchange rate translated as: I parked my titanium rod in her garage; she wanted at least one book. If she treated my package like it was butter pecan ice cream, that was good for two books. If there was an all out exchange of bodily fluids and acrobatic poses, hell, she inevitably felt that qualified her to receive an autographed set of 'em.
She began pulling off her clothing so that not a minute later she was standing there in her birthday suit looking – old and flabby and wrinkled. When she pulled on the thigh high stockings, I held my breath, hoping she didn't poke any holes in the delicate fabric; I didn't want to have to replace them. That woman must have been comprised solely of cellulite beneath her street clothes. In Miss Tanya's boudoir, the harsh overhead light accentuated her cottage cheesy thighs, which were made even more unattractive with the network of purplish blue veins that crisscrossed her upper legs like one of those old Rand McNally highway maps.
Would you like me to dance for you, Arlen?
Why, of course I would, Miss Tanya.
I sat myself down on the bed and waited for the performance.
Suddenly she figured out that the bedside table lamp was more appropriate than the fluorescent light overhead and she fixed the lighting so that her curves were dimmed and a portable CD player by her bed blasted an old Rod Stewart song: Do You Think I'm Sexy? Jiggly ol' Miss Tanya was a-bumpin' and a-grindin' those purplish veined thighs and even grabbing a bra from the bag and swinging it around her head like a lasso. The ol' gal was getting down…and getting me hotter by the second.
She whipped the bra around her head one more time, and I made a note that a feather boa might be a great addition to The Gift Bag, when that woman just reached over, and yanked down the zipper to my new khakis! Lord, she was worked up, and while I wasn't a big fan of the pulsing disco music, I sure as hell didn't mind it too much as ye ole python of love was lovingly caressed, and then sampled with her eager tongue. It was so gooood that I would willingly listen to every damn Rod Stewart song on the planet. And a few minutes later I'd tasted and slurped all I'd wanted and proceeded to pound her down into her too-soft mattress. I pounded her for hours, it seemed, and I thought we'd sink all the way down into the basement. I was the man, the stud, the zombie writer extraordinaire successfully screwing another fine Southern piece of ass that I'd encountered on the wonderful World Wide Web. I fell asleep, not dreaming, just feeling relaxed and ready for more come sunrise.
Chapter 2
Helena W. Hoffman
October 2004
I lived three blocks from my favorite diner, Astroburger. I splashed out once a week and always got the Greek salad, charbroiled cheeseburger, and slice of baklava. Tonight I was in a rush to get back and pick up the mail because I was expecting a very important package.
The corner house was built before I was born and was in the the Hollywood/Hancock Park area of Los Angeles. It was a simple white frame dwelling south of the Hollywood sign, some Baby Boomer's parents' idea of a home, surrounded by a picket fence. Palm trees loomed above it. The evening chill was settling in, and I rushed up the concrete walkway and stepped onto the porch and over to the mailbox. Reaching inside, I hoped it was there, my fingers expectant. But there was nothing. I leaned over, peering in, still under the delusion that it would be there but it wasn't.
I clutched the paper bag closer to me and went back down the walkway. The white house was only where I picked up the mail. I lived behind it in a small garden cottage. I made a left turn on the sidewalk, and another left led me into the tiny yard and past the lemon tree. I fumbled for my keys, avoiding the sight of the abandoned garage where I'd lived the year before. This current place was an improvement as the floors were carpeted and I had a kitchen. There was also room for my computer and printer.
Inside, I put the bag on the table and hurried over to the phone next to my corner bed, though a glance would have shown the solid red light of a message-less Monday. I turned; removing my sweater and hanging it up in the closet, and went into the bathroom to wash my hands of the mailbox dust. I fired up the computer, as it was difficult to stay away from it for more than a few hours. It was how I earned a living, writing articles and term papers. Having worked for other people in offices around the Los Angeles region, I was grateful that at least I didn't have to put in those eight to five hours, nor did I have to commute, make coffee, deliver interoffice mail, or make endless rounds of copies that ended up in recycling bins.
The smell of the charbroiled burger was piquing my nose and my stomach rumbled its displeasure of being empty since noon. I went over to a cupboard and opened it, removing a fine china plate. It had been bought at a thrift store for only a buck and was actually worth a lot more. Somehow, eating from fine china made anything taste better as my mother always said. In the utensil drawer lay sterling silver flatware that was from Reed & Barton. I had really lucked out when I found that set, along with some mismatched pieces. They shone respectfully in the dimly lit kitchen/office. It was incongruous, the modern flat screen and laser printer next to a Wedgwood fine bone china plate.
Once my burger was cut into quarters, I picked up a piece and slowly ate it. Then I logged on and opened up my email, in search of…
One paying piece of work--an assignment for a freshman at USC on basic psychology. Wasn't much but it was something.
The sudden knock at the door surprised me. But I knew that I had to answer it as my light was on, filtered through the edge of the mini blinds in the corner of the studio apartment. I figured the visitor was the man who lived in the big house; and when I got up and opened up my door, I saw the smiling landlord. He was a chubby man with a penchant for gaudy Hawaiian shirts, and he didn't disappoint. Red was the background, and the parrot and palm tree festooned shirt almost made my eyes water. Jerry had paired his wacky shirt with the baggiest blue jeans that were sold in swap meets across the Los Angeles Basin.
Jerry was holding it! A padded envelope, the patriotic colors of the USPS Priority Mail sticker discernible, the package I had been waiting for that day. That week, that year—hell, my entire life. I knew what was in it. I was amazed to see it in the landlord's beefy fingers that the grandfather-aged man wasn't an annoyance, he was a welcome messenger, a harbinger of news, the kind of news that was shouted from rooftops, celebrated with champagne, life changing…
Helena, this was accidentally delivered to me…I thought it might be important so…
he handed it to me.
Thank you, Jerry.
I smiled at him, hoping he would leave, not wanting to tell him what it contained. I touched the parcel, not daring to look at it completely; afraid it might not be THE delivery I was expecting. I wanted to make 100% certain before I told anyone, even my family. Eager as I was to open it, my nose detected the smell of that mostly uneaten burger and I turned to look at it.
Jerry nodded and backed away a couple of steps, I see you're having dinner now, just wanted to be sure you got your mail,
and for a large person he moved quickly and left, closing the door behind him. I was alone and sighed happily. I glanced at the envelope and saw the return address sticker.
The glossy white background contrasted with the crimson carnation beneath the name: Promises Publishers, LLC. The scrolled font was made more elegant by the posh sounding address, 1564 Town House Boulevard, West Bend, Oregon. I gazed at the unopened envelope, heavy with my dreams inside of it. I took a bite of my burger, and then started to pry a staple out of the envelope. But I stopped. I needed to go for a walk. A victory walk. It was something I had to do; the energy that surged through me was too powerful.
I grabbed my keys and was out the door. I walked, heading due east, just like I'd promised myself I would do when it
happened. Walking quickly on a sidewalk, past stately homes, which grew statelier the further east I strolled. The chill night air didn't affect me as I walked faster and faster, towards my goal.
Several blocks later and a turn due north, I encountered it—those magical words in the most perfect cursive I would ever witness, the name redolent of success, wealth, dreams, heaven in Hollywood, the name symbolic of the movie industry: Paramount Pictures. Across the street on Melrose Avenue stood the last remaining studio in Hollywood. The double arches spotlighted under the lights. I had been around the sand colored stone walls countless times. It was gated and guarded -- a movie studio fortress hidden by the walls to conceal the magic from the public. Only certain people were allowed past the well-secured gates off Melrose or Gower. People with badges and photo ID's. People who worked there, or knew of someone who did. I wasn't one of those people – yet. But after tomorrow, maybe I would be.
I turned and hurried back home so I could open up the package and gloat.
Beneath my shaking fingers the last staple fell to the tabletop and the envelope was open. A brief pause, a sharper intake of breath, and a sudden yank as I pulled it out.
As the padded mailing envelope fell to the floor, I clutched the trade sized paperback book. There was the painting of a covered wagon traveling across the desert. Into Paradise written by Helena W. Hoffman. I opened the massive 362-page volume I had written over the span of five years. Time spent writing and researching instead of dating and partying. Separating art from my paid writing. Burying my nose in the brand new book, I smelled the heady aroma of new pages. On the back of my book were the words describing the challenging journey my characters had trekked in their covered wagon from Minnesota to California. I smiled as I caressed the only copy in the world, so far, of my book. A real book! I was an author! A published author!
I turned to the computer, the place where all good things originated, especially this, my key to Hollywood. My status from lowly Internet writer and research paper whore would change. A published author of a novel I had written, a Promises Publishers author, I would be their first writer to snag a big deal. And, according to the message boards, I was the only writer there who was able to walk to Paramount Pictures. I logged on. In the NEW BOOKS section, I added my first message of the evening: My book arrived!!!!!
Helena in Hollywood.
I went back to my Yahoo! account and read an email from a new friend JohnnyBoy, in Boston. He was thinking of sending his manuscript off to Promises and I wrote him back, encouraging him to do so.
Back at the boards and there was a comment. Not to my surprise, it was from the board monitor, a man who seemingly lived there 24/7, Kurt Newman. The proud author of two Promises books, he resided in Gas City, Indiana and was working on another in his hardboiled detective series which he referred to as the meanest streets in the Midwest.
An hour later and I was watching the comments beneath my original posting multiply in the form of smiley faces and hand clapping emoticons that replaced actual words. It was better than words, I thought. Each comment filled me with more happiness. It was nearing nine-thirty and I still hadn't called my family. It was too late; my parents went to bed early. The happy news could wait until tomorrow, because maybe then there would be even more of it!
I placed my paperback novel next to me on the pillow and slept, dreaming of how my life was about to change for the better.
Chapter 3
November 2004
Arlen J. Stevenson
Well poontang and pussy sweet I was gettin' all kinds of attention on and offscreen just like the celebrity I was! My latest lady friend and I were listening to her favorite group's song, something entitled Rock and Roll All Night. But I let her play it, as I knew my chances at scoring some well-used pussy were in the region of the upper ninetieth percentile.
The dim light in her trailer helped the situation so that I wasn't able to see how washed out her KISS bedspread was. At least it was a full sized bed and my charitable work had led me to help a lost soul who had just ended her third marriage, and, judging by the plastic framed picture on the nightstand, the divorcee had spawned four children. Gloria's gap-toothed smile loomed near my face and there was a soft mood light of a lamp with a red scarf thrown over the shade.
Hey, Arlen!
Hey Glorious Gloria!
I exclaimed right back at her. Adding an adjective in front of prospective poontang's name was another guarantee of scoring.
As I lay back on her bed, I let her unzip and remove my britches. We were two horny adults who needed to get laid. I knew I wouldn't journey up to her trailer park again, nor would she drive down to Jefferson City and stay with me. As she took off my drawers, she expertly grasped my crusader of love and it saluted her stubby fingers and I let her ready it for whatever ride she was gonna share with me.
Damn, it was good being me…
Chapter 4
November 2004
Helena W. Hoffman
If I was a published author, nothing had changed for me from the number of hits my web site received to the number of doors that didn't budge. There was no meeting at Paramount, no placement in local or national bookstores, no book reviews, no book signings or screenplay deals. I'd been victimized in the past by a credit card scam, and now I was a victim of the publishing world. The false one of Promises Publishers. I discovered an article entitled False Promises, and when I skimmed it, a sick feeling began spreading throughout my stomach. Ursula LeBlanc told of having both her books stolen. I read the story on a writer's forum and the terms stuck with me: writer pays for copyright,
all PP titles available at our well stocked online book shop,
PP will accept virtually any manuscript of any length.
But the real way one knew it was a vanity press was how PP was always encouraging their authors to buy numerous copies of their own books, and they offered discounts of up to 40% for those who bought large quantities. On the PP web site was the following tip:
Always have a copy of your book on hand. Keep a box of them in the trunk of your car, and mention it to anyone that you meet. Everyone is a potential reader, and if they don't know about your book, then you are only hurting yourself. Make sure people know about your Promises Publishers book and always be prepared to push your book off to anyone you meet.
Ursula encouraged people