Read this exclusive excerpt from the forthcoming blockbuster novel on the theme of self-abuse, Fifty Shades of Translation. ______________________________ The only reason I have a shot at this translation gig at all is that my dearest, dearest friend, a gamine and gorgeous literary translator, had an unfortunate accident with a leather-covered book weight. When it slipped off her copy stand and crushed two fingers on her right hand, there was no longer any way she could hope to meet the deadline. She begged me to take the job instead. I ignored my rising panic and nodded. In my sensible Crocs Neria work clogs I make my way to the publisher’s office, a frankly intimidating supply closet in the penthouse of a twentieth-floor walkup that once housed IBM’s Seattle headquarters.

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On the far wall, there’s a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out onto the parking lot of a KFC. I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view, but then I realize I’m only trapped beneath a flawless filing cabinet that has tipped over onto my foot. Get a grip I tell myself. I’m such a klutz. There’s a long wait, during which I help myself to the warm Fresca I’ve found on the floor near a bank of ripped-out phone jacks. The bottle is actually open, but I don’t care. I sip, ignoring the cigarette ashes. And then it happens. The publisher appears.

He’s young, and very, very attractive. No, very, very, very attractive. Also flawless. He regards me shrewdly, like a hawk eyeing a field mouse, then he extends his hand. I take it and feel myself shivering like someone in the early throes of Dengue fever. Power surges through his long fingers.

This was a man who could take my copyright any day. “I’m here about the translation,” I hear myself saying.

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“I thought you might be,” he replies, a ghost of a smile touching his ghostly lips but not extending to his wry, ghostly eyes. “Perhaps we should talk about terms,” I whisper, my heart pounding. “Royalties, subsidiary rights, term of the license.” He is silent, unnerving me. I make a valiant effort to calm myself, taking deep purifying breaths, closing and opening my eyes, and shaking my head until I’m calm but totally dizzy. Without being asked, I take a seat on an imposing, em-dash-shaped sofa. “I’m a man who likes to possess things,” the publisher says after a long, unnerving, ghostly pause.

Inside I’m quaking. “But I’ll get to publish a translation, right?” I ask. I don’t recognize my own voice. He cocks his head flawlessly. There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. Actually, it’s a little bit wicked and a little bit wry. But totally flawless.

“Of course,” he says. His deep voice rocks me all the way down to my Nerias. He can have all the subsidiary rights he wants, I think to myself. “And you’ll at least put my name on the cover of the book?” With one hand he cups his chin, and with the other he trails his long, cool fingers across the bridge of his Adonis-like nose, completely unconcerned that this gesture makes him look a little like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. “In the front matter,” he whispers. I realize I can no longer remember what royalty payments even are. No one has ever affected me this way before. He’s going to take everything from me, and I don’t care.