"You're killing me young, man! Is that a yes or a no?!" an elder yelled at me behind his desk. The skin from his neck was hanging, and his white hair looked greasy.

"What?" I asked after noticing that I was staring at my feet.

"Do you have a new book for me or what?!"

"Oh, oh! Yes! Well, no. I have several drafts now."

"Hit me!"

"I have one about a musician who dreams about a song, but..."

"Remember, young man. No more stories about comatose or suicidal characters."

"Right. Then I have this one about a time/space/reality traveller whose mission is to go from one universe to the other to help humanity to save themselves. And to expand, eventually. He arrives with technology from his original universe to help us reach that point faster so he can ultimately find a universe where we are discovering new things. Things that are new for him as well."

"And what's the ending?"

"I can’t tell you that. But humanity preserves his brain and uses it to train a new generation of travellers."

"Hmm. We can do something about that. People like dystopian books. Especially teenagers."

"Well, this isn't tech..."

"Can we turn it into a trilogy?"

"It was more of a letter found in a shuttle, but..."

“So, it's a maybe. Send me that one as soon as you can. Do you have something else?"

"Actually, I was thinking about writing a series. It's about revenge. It's like those mafia stories like The Godfather or Goodfellas, but I want to write it for this generation. Modern crimes. And it's always a personal vendetta the string that makes the story go from character to character to chapter to another book and so on."

"Yes, yes. That sounds good too. I told you, we want series, not another standalone. Send that one too, and we’ll vote between those two options."

"Great! Thank you, sir."

"How are things going lately, young man? I see you finally bought that gun."

"What?"