I had consulted with Steve about the idea of going to the conference. After months of participating in various Online forums, writing entries after entries to “build my platform”, I was sick and tired of receiving advice and critique from other amateurs. My hope was to meet world-class professionals whose brain I could pick.

The Union Station on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC, was built at the beginning of the twentieth century, and at the time it was the largest train station in the world. It is also considered one of the finest examples of the Beaux-Arts style of architecture. In every aspect, it was designed to be monumental.

Steve arrived late, as usual. Knowing him and his profound lack of punctuality, we had asked him to come by around 6:00 pm but had prepared supper to be served at 7:00. Despite our efforts, he beat us yet again. He arrived at 7:30. I had prepared a black bean soup that, thanks to Steve’s late arrival, needed several refills of chicken broth while simmering on the stove.

I woke up with a headache and checked the alarm clock. It was Sunday at 2:24 in the morning. Sandie and I had been partying all night, and the mixture of alcohol and cigarette smoke was never a good combination for me.

The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless magazine, Writer’s Digest. Well, it is not totally useless, since it provided me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing. Just the other day, I found yet another advertisement that made my blood broil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.

My name is Stuart Martin Berry, and until last week I was an editor for one of the largest magazines dedicated to the dream world of writers and poets. Like many of my ex-colleagues, I am also a failed novelist. My first and so far last novel, a thriller titled Rules of Extortion, never made it into publication. That was almost two years ago, and, with my pregnant wife pressing me to get a job that, in fact, created an income, I considered my writing career as being over and done with.