It had been eleven months since he wrote a word and his publisher was getting antsy about the six-figure advance which seemed to have evaporated in the company of his muse.
What could have gone wrong?
Was it the six-foot Swedish glamour model who now shared his bed?
Was it the fact he hadn’t seen his kids for ten of those eleven months?
Was fate smacking him in the eye for his arrogant hubris?
Or was it none of those?
Was it simply that every word of his seven bestsellers was written by the wife he left behind?
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