Nothing can come of nothing.
William has been a busy man. He has written a novel in the short amount of time he's been in Chicago. Well, it's a novel of sorts. It's a hybrid between poetry, a play, and a novel. It's nothing like he's ever written before, and he doesn't entirely understand it. One Jennifer Rose is to blame, but either way, he likes it. He's asked around, and has found out that publishing companies are the way to go these days. It seems like much more worth than it's worth, but he's finally received a letter. From one of the publishing companies he sent a manuscript to.
The piece is a work on identity, something he's working on very hard right now (especially considering he's gotten a new one, William Shakespeare is apparently a bit of a precocious name). It's on journeys and defining ones own self. It's on a lot of things, but it's a blending of modern and classic, renaissance and meta. Comedy and tragedy. All of that good stuff. Something for the intellectual and the commoner.
He's sitting in the Conrad commons, looking at the letter intrigued. He ought to open it. However, he's got a new audience. Something he's unsure of. There is tension in this letter. There is a lot riding on it. He's been making money here and there at slams, but this--this could be a career.
The piece is a work on identity, something he's working on very hard right now (especially considering he's gotten a new one, William Shakespeare is apparently a bit of a precocious name). It's on journeys and defining ones own self. It's on a lot of things, but it's a blending of modern and classic, renaissance and meta. Comedy and tragedy. All of that good stuff. Something for the intellectual and the commoner.
He's sitting in the Conrad commons, looking at the letter intrigued. He ought to open it. However, he's got a new audience. Something he's unsure of. There is tension in this letter. There is a lot riding on it. He's been making money here and there at slams, but this--this could be a career.