Retribution

Introduction

I was a simple woman. A woman who didn't require much to
please me. I didn't take to the likes of fame or fortune when I
was given it. Well, every girl has their moment, but after that
moment was over, I was simply a woman doing what she loved. And
what she loved to do was write.

Writing had always been my dream, ever since I could
remember. Even in grade school, I spent a lot of my free time conjuring
ideas and putting them to paper to create some sort of crazed, out-ofthis-world
story. I knew that I had wanted to become a novelist since
the age of eight. And throughout my high school career, I focused on
creative writing until I entered my freshman year at the University
of California State Berkeley, where I majored in Journalism. It was
a hard profession to get into and like everyone, I had to start at the
bottom. I worked as an intern for a local radio station briefly before
moving on to a Freelance writer for the Bay Herald for about two
years.

In those two years, I learned a lot about the profession I was
so in love with. First lesson: Nothing was as easy as it seemed. Second
lesson: Everyone can write, but there are a select few who are great
writers. That is when I realized that, no matter what, I wanted to be
one of those great writers. I worked my ass off, so to speak, before
catching a break and landing a gig as an Entertainment Reporter.
I hadn't worked much in the way of entertainment, but I would
take every opportunity that I could get my hands on. I was young,
completely driven, and had my eye on one prize. The year and a half
that I worked there had proven, yet again, to show me that this was
something that I needed to pursue.I took in every bit of information
my brain could hold on to and worked it to my advantage. Before
long, I was writing for television shows with ABC.

By the age of twenty-eight, I had worked on a few successful
shows and my name was now buzzing, somewhere, within the streets
of Hollywood. But I always realized that writing for shows, though I
loved it, was not where my heart truly lay. And so at the age of twentyeight,
I walked away from Hollywood, in a sense, and began a new
journey.

I wanted to write a novel. Not just any novel, but a bestseller.
One that would have people completely on edge and begging for
more. I needed to write a murder mystery. And as I always had, I set
my mind to it and within two years, I had finally completed my first
novel. I was proud of my work, of all the thought, time, and blood
I had put into the words and I sent it off to publishing companies
around the United States. Hoping and waiting, with every passing
minute of every day, that someone would love my ideas as much as I
did. That someone would see the potential in me and give me a break;
a chance to show myself and to prove that I was, without a doubt, one
of those great writers.

Three months, I waited. Three slow and agonizing months
of repeatedly checking the mail, email, and voicemail in hopes of
hearing words along the lines of, "We've read your work and we're
interested in your novel," but it never came. It never came and I was
beginning to doubt myself; I was beginning to doubt the talent that
I knew I possessed. Slowly, I began to realize that maybe I wasn't as
good as I thought I could be. I began to doubt the decision of walking
away from the job that kept me living comfortably and going for my
dream. When you're young, people always tell you to go for your
dreams, no matter how big. But what they don't prepare you for is
the failure that could just as easily follow that dream.The failure that
sits over you in the shape of a storm cloud and when you come down
off the high, you start to realize that those raindrops could fall at any
minute. And in one moment, the confidence that you spend years
building within yourself can get washed away in the span of a few
seconds.

On the exact date that would have been six months since
sending out my work, I walked into my house and realized that I had
four new messages. I had already been discouraged and my excitement
drained completely so I let the messages sit for a few hours. Before
heading to bed, I pressed play and walked around the tiny apartment
I lived in, listening in on the messages:

"Good Evening. This is Thomas Covington calling from
Covington Books out of Brentwood. I'm trying to reach Jessica Wright.
I have your novel here, in my hands, and I wanted you to know that I
am very interested in possibly publishing you with our company. We don't
work too much with fiction of this sort, but it was too good to pass up. If
you could give us a call at..."

Quickly jotting the number down, I refrained from screaming
as it was almost eleven p.m. and I'm sure Mrs. Quincy next door wouldn't
have appreciated the loud noise jarring her from her sleep at such a
late hour. I won't spell out the other three messages, but I will tell you
that two were from other publishing companies and the last was from
my mother.

I spent the next day calling all three publishing companies,
who were all very willing to work with me, but now it seemed I had a
decision to make. My dream was coming true. Finally, after all of the
hard work I had put into my craft, I was finally being given that one
chance that I had been praying and hoping for since I was eight years
old.

With three bestsellers and a whole world of fame under my
belt, here I am before you, Jessica Wright. I am still a simple woman,
it still doesn't take much to please me, and I am still very much in love
with my craft.

Yes, I am still the same woman that I was before the fame and
the fortune. But the one thing I'm not...is a murderer.