After I published my first novel, The Crown Conspiracy, a critic wrote that my book was without merit and, in ten years, both it and I would be long forgotten. It has now been sixteen years, and by reading this, you’re proving that fellow wrong.

Esrahaddon officially marks the publication of my twentieth novel. Such a thing naturally evokes a certain degree of nostalgia. Looking back reveals a pattern that managed to weave its way into my novels: the idea of the unlikely success story. In an era of artistic and cultural pessimism, my books are sometimes accused of being too optimistic. The common assertion is that life is misery, and great novels should reflect that reality, even if they are set in a fantasy world. The idea of Good triumphing over Evil has been relegated to a childish yesteryear of fairy tales. They say such a notion never existed in the past and certainly has no place in the future.

Except it has, and it still does.

I began writing stories around the age of twelve and had completed three full-length, typewritten novels by the time I was seventeen. Still, I never thought of being a writer because such an idea was beyond absurd. I didn’t know the first thing about grammar, and my spelling was atrocious. While I didn’t know much, I was pretty sure writers needed to master such things. So when I graduated from high school, I set my sights on becoming an illustrator. I won a scholarship, which paid for my first year at a prestigious art school: The Center for Creative Studies in Detroit. If not for the financial assistance, I wouldn’t have attended college at all because of a lack of funds.

Like many Irish of the early twentieth century, my father worked at a steel mill. He also served in World War II. He died when I was nine, leaving behind four children and a wife whose only work experience had been filling in, Rosie the Riveter style, during the war. As a result, we lived on social security and veterans’ benefits. This meant my clothes were a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs from cousins, as all our income went to food, housing, and utilities.

I wasn’t good at much in school. I could draw and had a comic strip in the school newspaper, though I wasn’t an official member of the paper’s staff. I only had one creative writing course, the highlight of which was when the teacher picked my story to present to the class. She chose two other shorts that day, one written by another boy and the other by a girl named Megan. Having the girl selected was no surprise. She was the best in the class — likely the entire school — a bookworm who would achieve unexpected fame in her senior year as the high school musical star. The boy was an athletic sort, whose name I can’t recall, and whose story was, not surprisingly, about sports. To my regret, I don’t remember what Megan’s story was about, but I found it to be well-written.

The assignment had been to create a short story of no more than three pages about a photograph that was shown to the class and then passed around. The picture was of a single flower — a daisy, I think. I felt my story was pathetic. Given such a limited prompt, I came up with an absurd concept. A boy who had lived his whole life in a bunker after some apocalyptic event is sent to the surface to look for signs of life. He wanders for a few hours through a hellscape until he stumbles upon the flower. Having no idea what it is, he plucks it from the ground and studies the daisy before discarding it and uttering the only line of dialogue: “Whatever you are, you have no place in such a brutal world.”

I remember cringing as the teacher read my story. Afterward, I was surprised when no one laughed or made fun of it. They didn’t applaud, either. After all, we were a class of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. But what did happen has stayed with me all these years. Megan, the leading wordsmith of my eleventh-grade creative writing class, looked flabbergasted and asked incredulously, “A boy wrote that?”

I took it as a compliment — my first ever.

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After high school, one of my friends entered the US Air Force. The rest went to four-year colleges — paid for or subsidized by their parents. I worked as a dishwasher, then in a miserable job at a podiatrist’s lab. The pay was the same, but “laboratory technician” sounded better. Few knew I was just pouring plaster into molds and standing for hours at a utility sink being splashed by frigid water while I shaped foot castings. When contemplating my future, I thought I might save enough money to afford a tiny mobile home where I would live alone, or if I were lucky, I might have a dog. Marriage wasn’t in my cards because no one would want a guy who wasn’t confident about his ability to support a pet. At the age of eighteen, I was ready to call it quits. My life consisted of working long, crushing hours at a terrible place, eating fast food, and never sleeping enough hours. Still, I was convinced this was the high point of my life. Things would only worsen as age brought aches, pains, and medical bills.

Then just like in a fantasy story — one I wrote, at least — everything changed.

I met someone, or perhaps it is more accurate to say I noticed someone I hadn’t before. Nearly a year younger and still in high school, she was a waitress who sometimes played that new and somewhat infamous game, Dungeons & Dragons, at my house. I was drawn to her because her life was worse than mine. She was the daughter of two alcoholics in a broken marriage, with a mother who blamed her children for the breakup. Back when the mother suffered a nervous breakdown, this girl (who was only thirteen at that time) was left to care for her six-year-old sister. After the mother’s discharge, more problems followed, such that the girl didn’t want to go home. This was why, late one Saturday after a long night of D&D, I found this girl asleep on my mother’s couch. Knowing her story and that she had no place else to go, I stayed up all night watching over her so that my mother didn’t find her and demand explanations.

As the sun came up, so did her eyelids. She blinked a few times, staring at me. Then her face scrunched up in confusion. She looked at the sunlight creeping in through the windows. “Have you been there all night?” she whispered.

I nodded.

“Don’t you have to go to work in a few hours?”

I nodded.

She stared at me for a long time as if my elaborate replies didn’t make sense.

“Why?”

“I wanted you to get a good night’s sleep.”

Again the odd, long stare.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment Robin Planck fell in love with me.

It was also the instant that the downward spiral of my life stopped and slowly began to go in the other direction. Robin suggested that I go to a community college. I honestly didn’t think that was possible. Given that she was the valedictorian of her high school class, I knew she was more intelligent than I, so I took her advice. I didn’t get much out of the education, but I was able to land a job as an illustrator for slightly more than minimum wage. Robin spent three years working full-time while simultaneously finishing her engineering degree. We both worked sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and meatless spaghetti for dinner. Sweaters and wrapping up in blankets were a necessity because we kept our thermostat so low that we blew on our hands when writing. But by doing all that, we managed to afford a house.

Once Robin graduated, we got married, and from that point on, every year has been better than the one before. Most of it wasn’t easy. Neither of us benefited from a mentor, a supportive family, a wealthy relative, or a lottery win. No opportunities fell into our laps. Doors were usually closed, several locked, but one way or another we found our way in.

I’m not suggesting we had it harder than anyone else. After all, I am a straight, white, American male, so my basement is a roof for many others. Still, when comparing myself to everyone I knew, I suspected I was the least likely to succeed, especially at something as challenging as becoming a novelist. The idea wasn’t realistic enough to even contemplate.

It was a fantasy. And yet here I am.

So for me, the idea of an unlikely character beating the odds and achieving the impossible isn’t something that exists only in books. It’s the story of my life: the tale of a young boy destined for failure, who, through the heroics of one woman and the generosity of a legion of readers, has achieved dreams heretofore unimagined.

Thank you for proving that critic wrong and supporting me for so many years. You’ve turned a fantasy into reality, and I hope I can return the favor.

Michael J. Sullivan

January 2023