Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

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It was with a heavy heart that I entered my office that Friday afternoon in December. After the holidays, I would be cleaning out my desk one last time—not because my publishing house was moving to a new office but because I was moving to a new life. I wanted to believe that I’d made the right decision. After all, I’d yearned to take up sheep farming for as long as I could remember. Still, when I opened that door and beheld the shelves overflowing with books; the framed photos, plaques, and awards covering the walls; the sharpened pencils with their worn-down erasers; and the half-read manuscripts and half-eaten candy bars littering my desk, I couldn’t help asking: Could sheep bring me anywhere near the pleasure I’d found in the company of authors?

As I sank into my Dusty Mauve Naugahyde Chair Ergonomically Sculpted with Lumbar Support Curvature—a bonus I’d received as part of a recent job promotion—I felt myself sink into a dusty melancholia as well. I picked up a copy of the latest self-help bestseller written by one of my authors, Dr. Bob’s Grab Yourself Some Happiness, Even If It Makes You Miserable, and flipped to a random page, hoping to find reassurance that I was doing the right thing.

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