He’d written under his pseudonym for a long time now. Almost his whole career. He believed he had been afraid at first to face failure, or success, as himself. So he hid behind it.
But almost overnight he became a writing sensation. Important people praised him for his innovative style. He’d gotten caught up in the whirlwind of success and now twenty years later he was still known as George Smith.
Not to say that he hadn’t published anything under his real name. He had. In a few magazines. But those short works of fiction (which were unlike anything else he had written) were met with mixed reviews. So he kept hiding.
But today he had an epiphany. He didn’t really like writing as George anymore. The bloom was off the rose, as the saying goes. He longed to explore other realms of fiction, much like an adventurer seeking the lost city of Atlantis. And the critics be damned! He just wanted to write for the pleasure of it. There was only one problem.
He didn’t know if George would let him go.