Despite increased and sometimes aggressive interest, I'd turned down every offer on the rights to adapt The Night Cycle into a series. A few had even gotten past the hurdle of a first meeting, with agents and lawyers in tow, but I hesitated to turn over characters that I still felt compelled to play with. Books still in the pipeline. Story collections.

They were, I'd been told, a goldmine, and I needed to jump before the bubble burst.

Still, I wasn't ready to watch them get butchered, no matter the promises given for creative control and final plot approval. How this could all be possible in such a finite world, with a fixed audience and barely any reach, I could never fully get an answer for, but Darrow seemed to find a way.

The offer that held the most interest, shockingly, was one I'd gotten for In the Fade. The director, young and strange and with only a handful of post film school credits to her name, seemed like an odd fit. She was quiet and anxious and had done most of her early communication herself and through email. Because her last feature had been unexpectedly successful, she'd managed to score financing from a small, indie production company and they'd basically set her loose to choose her next project. Scripts came in. Ideas were pitched. She wanting none of it.

Above all, she wanted to turn In the Fade into a feature.

She'd come at me with the draft of a script and storyboards, possessing some of the oddest, clearest vision of what the story should look like, outside my own head. I hesitated. She was patient. I needed to be fully on board. She wanted my input.

She knew how personal it was.

I don't know.

I'm pretty sure she, and the rest of our teams, were tired of hearing me say it. It was fucking personal. I'd put the story out there for the world, but on my terms. This was an unknown, and it should've been an easy, hard no, but for some reason...

For some reason, that was more than just the money, I hadn't closed the door on it.

Thinking about it, not quite worrying about it, had fogged up my fucking brain. Escaping my office, I'd found neutral ground at a darkly lit coffee shop and brewery, ordered a beer, and stared furiously at a mostly blank page on my laptop. I'd written enough short stories lately to put out another collection on top of the one that had released earlier in the year, but apart from The Night Cycle, which I could turn out like clockwork, the well was worryingly dry.

Hidden within my open tabs was an email draft, also blank. When the fuck had I ever been this indecisive. Fuck.

Heaving a sigh, I stabbed at my keyboard, typing, "YOU'RE A FUCKING HACK."

The words screamed back at me, in all caps. Somehow, they were strangely comforting.

[[Find Neil at the pretentious coffeehouse/brewery hybrid of your choice, at whatever time of day works for you. Open to all!]]