They were noted for being the first customers of the day, and that morning was no exception. What was exceptional, however, was that instead of their normal intense conversation, during which pages of script were shuffled back and forth across the table, the two writers seemed to be barely aware of each other’s existence. In fact, both men seemed to be totally absorbed in their own little worlds. Ben Drabble was thinking about his agent. The novel needed a few changes, the bloody man had blithely said the previous day. A few changes! And what did he mean by that? A sentence here, a paragraph there? No! The changes he wanted would necessitate a completely new plot – and possibly a new set of characters, as well! If only his agent knew the mental anguish which had gone into writing the book. If only he could even begin to comprehend how, once it was finally completed, it seemed to its author to be etched in stone. Drabble lit up a cigarette and inhaled what, in his present mood, tasted like dried camel dung.
