All I ever wanted to do was write.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. I should have said, “All I ever wanted to do was be a successful and prolific author.” Because any fool can write, but it takes something special to be a Stephen King, a J.K. Rowling, a John Grisham… or me.

Which is why, when I caught the brownie in my backyard, I thought I had it made. You know the deal: catch a brownie and he has to grant your wish before you let him go.

“Make me a successful and prolific author,” I ordered the faery.

“There’s a price,” he warned.

“Oh, I know, I know,” I said. “Stalkers, imitators, lawyers, yadda yadda. Whatev.”

He shrugged and waved his little hands, sending sparkly things through the air to me. “It’ll happen. Now let me go.”

Hm, I thought. Sparkles. I can work with that. I ran inside and cranked out whatever lame-ass idea came to me, but, remembering the stories, I didn’t include any brownies. Just vampires and werewolves and idiot teens.

And it sold.

And the sequels sold.

And movies happened.

And I dealt with the stalkers and imitators and lawyers and whatnot, laughing all the way to the bank.

Until the accident. Or, well, I’m still not sure if it was an accident, but I’m lying there in bed recovering when the brownie shows up. “Time to pay the price,” he said, grinning.

“What? This? This is the price?”

“No, not at all. This is.” He made the sparkly thing happen.

Next thing I know, I’ve got these eight legs and I’m spinning webs for him to turn into some sort of magicky mending thread.

I suppose I should be used to it. After all, everyone always took whatever I shat out and turned it into something better.