My father's study had always intimidated me.
Dark wood, floor to ceiling shelves, the particular smell of old books and older decisions. I had sat in the chair across from his desk twice in my life and both times I had left that room feeling smaller than when I entered.
I walked in on a Monday morning and sat in that chair and looked at him across the desk and said, "I want to start a business."
He put his pen down.
"What kind," he said.
"Publishing," I said. "Digital. Serialized fiction specifically. I've been writing for platforms for two years. I know the market. I know what readers want. I know what platforms pay for and what they don't." I held his gaze. "I don't want to be a writer on someone else's platform anymore. I want to own one."
My father looked at me for a long moment.
