The man says, “In your first book about the young woman with amnesia, she has sex with a sleazebag. If you must have a sex scene in your book, at least she should have it with a decent guy.”

            The author suddenly remembers who these people are. They are his critics—all the people who have given him bad reviews. He must defend his position.

            “Well, you see, she is struggling to remember her past life, and one thing she is attempting to do is to find out about her sexuality. This man…”

            The author can tell from the expression on the questioner’s face that he isn’t buying it. The author quickly shifts gears.

            “Thank you very much for your comment. The next time I write a sex scene I’ll consult you first.”

            A woman halfway back in the audience is calling out to get his attention. The author points in her direction.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “How did you learn to write, sending text messages to teenagers? Do you ever write a sentence of more than five words?”

            “Are you speaking about a particular book, ma’am?”

            She gives a book title.

            The author remembers the first sentence of that book. He mentally counts the words in that sentence.

            “The first sentence in that book has sixteen words. And I’m sure there are many other sentences of that length or longer in the book.”

            “I wouldn’t know. I just read the excerpt.”

            “You mean you reviewed the book without actually reading it?”

            “Yes.”

            “May I ask why?”

“This is a free country. I’ll do anything I damn please.”

            The author forces a smile and says, “It takes all kinds, doesn’t it? Any more questions?”

            Another woman gets to her feet and starts speaking before the author can call on her.

            “When your protagonist is in the hospital, recovering from being hit on the head, you show her as being concerned about her appearance because she is being visited by some young men. You don’t know anything about women. She’s injured for pity’s sake. She isn’t going to be worried about how she looks.”

            The author is ready for this one. “I have a story to tell. Years ago I dated a girl whose friend had joined a convent. One day she talked me into taking her to the convent to see her friend. We were in the reception area when the trainee nun walked in. She took one look at me, became flustered and apologized for not wearing makeup.”

            The author smiles, pleased with himself. The woman casts a look at him that would melt lead and sits down with a thump.

            A man in the back is waving his hand in the air as if he’s trying to catch a bus. The author recognizes him.

            “In one of your books you speak disparagingly about global warming. You are obviously a global warming denier and should be expunged from the earth.”

            The author attempts to explain. “I’m not a denier of anything. The earth has been warming and cooling for four and one-half billion years, so it’s certainly doing one of those right now. What I’m against is junk science being used to support the agendas of groups who hate people and want to blame the human race for everything.”

            The man in the audience says, “Denier.” Then he starts to chant, repeating “denier” over and over again. Other people in the audience take up the chant and it swells in volume. The author looks at the frightening faces of the audience members and fears for his life. He tries to speak over the noise of the chant.

            “I’ll be back in a minute.”

            The author goes to the door and surreptitiously turns on a hidden valve that lets a colorless and odorless gas into the room. He exits and shuts the door behind him, being sure it is securely locked and can’t be opened from the inside. He whistles as he walks down the hall toward the elevator.