The sound is almost deafening, thousands of printers spitting ream after ream of paper into boxes on the floor. The entire warehouse echoes with it, off the concrete and up through the tangle of wires. Miles of spun metal, with microcomputers and receivers strung throughout like beads in a dreamcatcher.
Jack, My literary agent, is pacing up and down the aisles replacing ink cartridges as his wife samples random pages from the boxes. "Here, I've read this one before," she says, "It's a Stephen King novel. Different name for the main character, but that's it." That printer gets marked with a red sticker. There's already seven others near it tagged, we may have to adjust the frequency for that section.
I wander out and load up the dolly with more paper, then stand for a minute just looking up at the flickering storm clouds. This area is famous for these storms, but everyone focuses on the negative. They complain about the static on their televisions and the bad radio reception, but nobody stops to think there might be something to gain.
A novel every year from each of ten pen names, and Jack thinks he can get the radios hooked up next. I've always wanted to be a songwriter.