Jack Ellison (MC's POV)
I squinted into the hardened eyes of the man sitting opposite me, holding my gaze unflinchingly.
"You know I don't have to choose you, right? I could just walk across the street to your competitor, throw the script on their desk, and watch them bend over backwards to fulfill every last one of my demands." I threatened, not out of malice, but naked curiosity.
"And that is your prerogative, Jack. You can choose to do a lot of things. Your life is an empty cup, as they say. You could choose to fill it with whatever you want. But I shall not, will not, compromise my principles to cater to anyone. Be it a child or Stephen King himself. I pride myself and my staff on specializing in experimental content and avant-garde publications, and this-" He held up the manuscript, "is right up my alley. My job will be to ensure your art form does not clash with the court of public opinion, but is rather embraced by it. And I will go to any lengths to ensure that's exactly what occurs."
A beat of silence followed as he held firm in the face of my scrutiny.
'Finally met my match, heh?'
He isn't wrong per se. The public's suspension of disbelief can only stretch so far in this era dominated by conservatism, and frankly, a boy on the cusp of becoming a teenager, writing about a nudist club in his book targeted towards teens, is not only a massive no-no, but will also bring said boy's upbringing into question.
I only realized it once confronted by the issue at hand, and to be proven wrong for the first time in this life, where my preternatural gift has kept me ahead of the curve every damn time… it ain't pleasant by any stretch.
But will I let my ego park itself between mediocrity and success?
No.
Hell no.
I am not humble by any plausible metric, but… I am certainly capable of admitting my fault if I am genuinely in the wrong, and most definitely capable enough to learn from the outcome… such that it never occurs again.
So my face breaks out into a million-watt beam. "I agree with your assessment unequivocally, Mr. Messerli. Let's make it an exotic yoga club, then. Clothed. As for the rest of your edits, I found them rather minor in comparison. I might not know the intricate reasons behind them, but this one time… I will choose to take a leap of faith."
I reach out my piddly ass hand across the table as it gets engulfed by his large, hairy one.
"Wonderful! Magnificent, truly! Oh, if only you were older, dear boy, I would've broken out my bottle of premium scotch for this occasion!" He looked more overjoyed than even I, to be honest.
"Ahem."
We glance towards the man who decided this would be the perfect moment to interrupt.
Vincent DeLuca.
Remember how Aunt Bessie was tasked with finding an agent for me? Well, she did, and Mom and I went over to her office.
She took one look at me and quoted a rather exorbitant fee, consisting of 25% of all present and future proceeds.
A fourth. Of everything.
I didn't even bother gracing her with an answer.
Just stood up, blew a raspberry, and promptly walked out like a boss.
At least I think it looked cool.
Then mom walked out, went on a tirade about how she had raised a polite young boy, and that my behaviour was inexplicably rude.
It lasted a minute at best before she proceeded to join my consensus regarding her unfathomable greed, and we made our way home, worried about the next step to take.
And that's when it happened. Dad came in clutch, with the save of the century.
Said he had a friend who had published a novel or two, and got him in contact with his agent, who arrived in tow to our lovely little household.
That's how we met and sat down with Vincent, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Guy not only turned out to be reasonable but undeniably smart, having had over 20 years of experience handling authors of all sorts and their various quirks and demands.
We chatted for hours as he explained the various ins and outs of the industry, and what the standard fee and royalty structure were.
We managed to wrestle him down to 15% of gross royalty earnings, in exchange for leaving the merchandising and film/TV rights untouched.
We even worked out negotiation tactics and what I wanted from this deal specifically. Sure, my terms seemed quite unconventional to the man, who lacked foresight on the true value of IP I had created, so there were moments or two where he made a spectacular impression of a gaping fish.
But all in all, the experience was quite positive, and thus, we find ourselves here.
"Let's get back to brass tacks, shall we? The edits were simply a single stipulation out of the many. What, pray tell, are your thoughts on the others?" Vincent asks, his steely gaze meeting Messerli's.
The man sighs heavily, a frown adorning his countenance as he focuses on the terms we have put forth. "In exchange for your client's trust, I shall treat you honestly, Vincent. We are an indie publishing house with next to no connections in Hollywood. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't realistically exploit the dramatic rights to their full potential. I will include a clause stating I will not license, sell, or interfere with the rights in any way. I'll require a consultation credit if an adaptation does come to fruition down the line; revenue will go in its entirety to you."
He took a deep breath before continuing, "In practice, I am perfectly pleased to trade the hefty advance for an increase in royalty, let's say… 10% for paperback, 15% for hardcover, with an increase to 20 in perpetuity once sales exceed 75k. As for graphic novel adaptation rights…" He runs his hand across his forehead for a moment, "I deal in prestige literature and frankly, comic books aren't exactly mainstream, so sure. The rights remain with the author, on one condition. Sun&Moon publications will receive the right of first refusal, and we will add in a non-compete clause against simultaneous release, to ensure you don't cannibalize your own sales. Agree with me so far?"
Vincent flashes me a look. I nod in response.
"Go on." He offered.
Doug nodded, reaching out for his pen, "Now, while I agree with your terms in spirit, I am afraid entering a contract where the author gives up his advance for 'everything else' sets a dangerous precedent in our world. So a token advance of $1, and a 75/25 split in your favor of subsidiary rights, translation, and audio should be added in. Also, we split the net receipts of the book club and special sales evenly. Deal?" He peered at us, expecting a reaction.
He got nothing. Vincent was a seasoned professional, and I… was not exactly run of the mill by any means. I had mastered my poker face months ago in preparation for occasions just like this.
Silence persisted for a few seconds, as the clock ticked away in the background.
Vincent spoke first, "Your terms are fair, Douglas. We will accept them, but with a caveat."
"What now? I believe I have more than generous enough, especially for a newcomer."
"This newcomer could have gone to New York, but settled for an indie house, so let's not pretend you are conceding something here. I want a reversion clause included. If the novel remains out of print for 12 consecutive months, then full rights revert to the author."
"24 months." Came the swift reply.
"Let's meet in the middle, 18." Shot back like a true consigliere.
Doug grimaces for a second before composing himself, a calculating glint entering his eyes. "18. Provided we also include a first-refusal clause on his next manuscript." He switches to me. "I see the hunger in your eyes, boy. Your ambition shines brightly… You don't strike me as a one-hit wonder, not by a long shot. What do ya say? Done deal?"
I turn to Vincent with a smirk that says it all. He smiles in turn before reaching out his hand, "Deal. It was a pleasure, Doug. I have a feeling I'll be a frequent fixture in your office." He tightly grapples his hand with Doug's. "Let's do this again sometime."
They share a grin, and for a second, I could see it. My future being built… one LEGO block at a time, being stacked exactly where needed to ensure a solid foundation.
Right before leaving, I inquire a final time, "Mr. Messerli-"
"Oh, none of that! My friends call me Doug." He waved dismissively.
"... Doug then. Any estimate as to when it'll hit the bookshelves? How long a wait, so I can set expectations?"
"Well, let's see. Proofreading will take up a week at most, considering this is pretty solid so far-" He pointed at the manuscript, "Typesetting will finish in a month, The Cover design will simply need to be verified, thanks to your sketches, amazing work by the way. Really caught me off guard with that!"
I nodded, mouthing a thanks, before gesturing forward.
"Printing and Binding will take a quarter of a year, and then 2 months of rigorous promotion will follow… You'll be able to purchase a copy in early November, if there are no hitches, and in most cases, there aren't. So we're good there. 7 months, Jacky, you just wait. The country'll be captivated by it."
Hmm… In a time before technology was the norm, fast-tracking just didn't occur then.
Well, no matter. Patience is the key.
And I am lucky enough already to get what could possibly be the best damn deal for a newcomer ever.
Thank goodness for the fact that it's 1984, and 'Maus' wouldn't win a Pulitzer for another year.
Otherwise the graphic novel part of the contract could have gone very differently.
And frankly, having to sign a first-look deal wasn't really a sacrifice on my part, considering my plans to write (rip-off) another classic animated movie from the future as a full-length novel in the upcoming months. If I time things right, I could have the next book released alonsgide the Zootopia comic as a double feaurette, a bundle deal that could theoretically boost sales tremendously.
As for the film/TV rights… MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Like hell am I gonna let anyone get a slice of that juicy pie!
Seriously, I am strongly contemplating pulling off a James Cameron in that aspect.
Letting the necessary tech develop at the helm of good ol' Steve Jobs over at Pixar when he inevitably opens it, and only then blitz the market with a sufficiently high budget production, late 90s, or early 2000s at best.
Not before that.
I'll let Toy Story have its share of glory first, ensuring they build a strong enough demographic all on their own… ripe for me to exploit to my fullest once I grow the fuck up and take destiny by its balls.
But until then… patience is the fucking key.
'Deep breaths Jack, your time to shine in the sun, ain't that far away.'
And with that little bit of self-talk concluded, I head over to my home with Vincent, eager to taste Mom's delicious cooking.
According to her, I definitely deserve it, and you won't find me complaining.
Seriously, an influx of liberal ideology is all it would take for her to open a top-class restaurant of her own.
But no. For some damn reason (conservative patriarchy), she is dead set on remaining a homemaker for the rest of her days.
Lucky for her, the boy she birthed plans on changing things once he really hits his stride.
After all, I love my parents too much to not drag them kicking and screaming when I make it big, and oh boy, will I.
As Thanos once proclaimed, 'I. Am. Inevitable.'
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A soft April breeze drifted through the open kitchen window, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden. The table was set simply, plates catching the glow of a low-hung lamp. Outside, a light rain tapped the patio stones, while inside, the house felt hushed and warm, setting the perfect mood for a celebratory supper
The sound plates clinking rhythmically fills the room, as I wolf down the delicious piece of chicken marinated and cooked to perfection.
And right as we finish the meal, I decide it to be the perfect moment to broach the topic plaguing my mind for months.
"Mom, Dad," I begin, "I have been thinking, and I feel like school's just no longer challenging enough for me at the current level. Any chance I can skip a grade next year?"
A pin drop silence permeates the air, before being broken by Dad. "Sure."
Wait what?
I flash a dubious look, "Just like that?"
"Just like that." Came the shockingly calm reply.
"Seriously, no fuss? You'll talk to the teachers?" I ask again, now confused at their oddly serene acceptance.
"Jack dear, why stop at one? I say you skip two grades next year. Certainly got the brains for it." Mom steps in.
My brain halts for a second as my parents stare at me, clearly amused by my reaction.
"...Sure?" I ask again, struggling to internalize their lack of refusal
They traded a look, a hint of smiles on their faces. "You've been top of your grades your entire life. And if you had the time to write up a novel, while keeping up effortlessly with the rest… Yeah sure. You deserve it. You are a genius, Jacky, and we have learnt to accept that it comes with its share of circumstances. So let's face them head-on, I say!"
I go quiet for a second before finally responding. "Thank you. I honestly thought this was gonna be an uphill battle. Had a whole speech prepared and all. A report tucked under my bed if things went nuclear."
I smile lovingly at them, "Any chance I can toss it in the shredder, Dad? The one in your office?"
He snorted in return, "Let's do it together tomorrow. We'll head over to the college, been meaning to show you off at work for a while now."
Sometimes, it's moments like this that remind me how truly blessed I am to have acquired this chance.
Seriously, I could look for years and not find parents better than the set I've got here, that much I am convinced of without a doubt.
And with that happy thought, I carry the dishes to the sink, before rinsing them off, and heading straight to my room, content with the lot I have been given in this life.
I believed my memory to be the only extraordinary gift I had received for this endeavor… clearly, I was dead wrong.