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    Typewriter from Hell
    Typewriter from Hell
    Typewriter from Hell
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    Typewriter from Hell

    By Diane Cox

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Ellen Brinson, unemployed librarian, is desperate for money. She begins to write a novel, but strangely, she doesn't have much control over the content. Henry Morgan, literary agent, has been flying high on the sales of his star novelist for years. Now, she's stopped writing and Henry is desperate for money. The manuscript will bring the two together - and all Hell will break loose.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDiane Cox
    Release dateOct 30, 2013
    ISBN9780991098200
    Typewriter from Hell
    Author

    Diane Cox

    I live in Atlanta with two dogs Sparky (alias Gentleman Jim) and Drew (alias Funky Joe). Our two cat pals Jack and Lily try to keep us in line.My day job involves daily interaction with government agencies which has endowed me with the patience required to GET PUBLISHED!I have always WANTED to write, but only recently have I begun to try. For the past six years I have been learning and polishing my abilities and I feel that now I can produce some pretty entertaining prose. Hope you feel the same!

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      Book preview

      Typewriter from Hell - Diane Cox

      Typewriter from Hell

      by

      Diane Cox

      Published by Opal Creative Enterprises, Inc.

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2013 Opal Creative Enterprises Inc.

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. This story is a work of fiction.  Though many of the places and locations named herein do exist, the characters and their actions are the product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. Visit the author’s website at:  http://www.dianecox.net

      Chapter One

      Ellen Brinson peered over her half glasses at the messy typewritten page. The ‘e’ on the old Corona was so occluded it looked like a giant dot. She quickly read through the last few paragraphs she’d just pounded out. She had a screaming headache.

      Where the Hell was this stuff coming from? It was true she’d always wanted to write. Her MLS in library science was all about Ellen’s belief that she couldn’t write, so being around books was the next best thing. But, this, this stuff she was typing -- she’d never done the things, never even known anyone like the people in this story.

      It didn’t matter. Six more weeks and her unemployment was going to run out. The stress of not having a job for two years, of trying to find something else she could do to earn a living and getting nowhere, the sheer desperation, was about to drive her crazy. This book was the only hope she had right now, and she clung to it.

      Rubbing her eyes, Ellen stretched and the old afghan that covered her lap slipped to the floor. This damn dump was so drafty; she was always cold. Pushing her chair back, she moved to the other side of the room where a row of cabinets and a miniature stove and fridge masqueraded as a kitchen. She poured a cup of hot water from the kettle warming on the stove and dunked a tea bag in it. Then, she reached under the sink and found a pint of vodka, splashing a liberal shot into the tea mug.

      The mug cradled in both hands, she plopped down on the rumpled bed that dominated the small room, and leaned back against the wall. Sometimes she felt like she was someone else. Maybe that explained what happened at the typewriter. Or maybe she was just going nuts. That was probably it.

      Ellen took a big gulp of the spiked tea, her mind running in circles like a hamster on a wheel. She had to do something, even if it was wrong. She got up and crossed to the rickety wooden table that held her typewriter. She grabbed the messy pages of the manuscript that had been pouring out of her for the past three weeks. Automatic writing, wasn’t that what they called it? Ellen read a paragraph at random:

      Serena slid a glance at the senator next to her. With a twitch of her shoulders, she hit him with a blast of décolletage, and then sent her tongue on an exploratory tour of her mouth. She could feel the man heat up like a kitchen stove.

      Another sideways glance confirmed that the front of his pants now looked suspiciously like a tent. Turning her head to look directly at him, she lasered him with the 100 Watt Sex Bomb Smile. Tossing her head back, she trailed her long, red fingernails down her arched, white neck toward her bosom. Then she rose and wiggled her way across the room, giggling to herself.

      My God, what crap! Where had it come from? All the same, it was so trashy that maybe it had some potential for being published. It reminded her of the stuff written by Isabel Ritter –no, Isabel Rider.

      Rider - she got a visual of the author astride a naked man, bucking in unabashed lust. Ellen laughed out loud, then as quickly sobered as the gravity of her situation struck her.

      She ran her fingers through her curly hair. What could she do with this stuff? She needed to send it out to somebody, but who?

      And, why would they read it? She was nobody, unpublished. She didn’t even have a friend at a publishing house. She knew a few writers, but they were mostly historians. They would be appalled if she asked them to pass this trash on to their agent.

      She read through the pages again. What the Hell. It’s worth a try. Taking in a deep breath, Ellen jumped off the sagging bed, pulled her parka on over her sweats, and tugged on some mukluks. Slamming the door to her flat, she descended five floors of walk-up, her mukluks slapping against each step.

      A late spring snow was lazily drifting down as she pushed through the front door of her building, cursing as a splinter poked her hand. She hated this dump. She was beginning to hate New York. Ellen had come here with such high hopes, sure she would discover the glamor and excitement that beckoned in so many novels. Instead, the reality was that New York was no fun for the poor.

      In spite of her disappointment, the farmhouse in Iowa where she’d grown up still didn’t look good to her. That was something. Her mother would make her life a living Hell if she had to go back home, broke. Only her father had believed in her dream, and he’d been dead five years now.

      Watch where you’re going! A guy in a plaid wool jacket bumped her as he passed on the busy sidewalk. She

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