To speak for him is to leave a breath
Silban writes pulp. He makes no apologies. He tells a story. Eight novels: three, book club alternates; two sold to movies; both movies made. All Silban's books sell early: a hundred, maybe two hundred pages in. Silban has a knack; he hooks people. With three books, he just walked into an office and started to talk.
It makes him angry though. Not the pulp. Not the success. More that he can't finish before somebody buys; some stranger saying, "Uh...so this and this and this," and getting his checkbook out. At which point, Silban spins his eyes but, because whoever-has-said-oh this and this and this is waiting, ultimately nods and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose," and finishes the book to whoever's specifications. And hates it. Hates the knowing.