Prodded by her powerful desire for fame and fortune, she typed away at her manuscript through the brink of dawn. It felt lonely knowing something or nothing might come of this, but like someone standing at the edge of a cliff waiting to jump, she inhaled deeply and let the thrill of the unknown get to her.
Breathe deep, mama, breathe deep and take it in. Now let GO!
The room spun around her, galaxies rotated on their axis while the stars moved in their millennial ruts overhead. A car horn beeped outside, and the fall wind rustled the leaves, sending the curtains eerily swirling into the room, but she didn’t even notice.
Two hours later, or maybe it was a mere two minutes, she lost track of it, her hands slowed on the keyboard like a fading song. Blinking several times before looking around, she shook herself off the seductive trance and looked at the screen. It started with the desire for fame and fortune, from the hungry writer eager for the next commission, racing furiously to get to the finish line. A marathon. But now? Now it was a masterpiece. It was real. She sat there with content, staring lovingly at the work of art that has come to life and clicked on ‘save.’ She stood up, stretched, yawned, and crawled into bed, smiling as she drifted off in her peaceful slumber.
* * * * *
I’m really looking for a new client,” Anthony said matter-of-factly. Two years ago, he launched his independent record label that reached moderate success last year. He already had three major accounts in place, but the retainer fees still hadn’t come through, and it was already Thanksgiving week. “If Dave can’t close the deal with Tracks Recording by end of day today, then I’m definitely not going to get my commission before the end of the year.”
His jaws tightened as he glanced at the alarm clock, his nemesis. He even wrote a song for it that a little-known pop singer had sung into an independent label one hit wonder, and aptly named it “Reality is an Alarm Clock.” It was a good song, upbeat and catchy, but it didn’t quite deliver well with the public. Sometimes, he explained, even with the perfect packaging of a singer’s looks and talent, a producer’s skills and musical arrangements, and a kick-ass marketing platform, there was always that one little quirk, like a performer’s cheesy dance moves, that would nearly kill the entire album. So he was always busy looking for the next big thing.
”6:15, crap. We’re going to be late. The children’s book launch meeting is at 7:30.” He jerked up from the bed, and she missed him by a hair when she leaned closer to his side of the bed for her kiss. Ugh, why does he have to be such a mood killer? She pulled up the covers and shunned away any form of light in an attempt to recapture her writer’s high.
She refused to get sucked into this big ball of stress. She was lonely again. Or maybe she was longing for something else. Forget that, she thought. Just focus on you. Don’t let him get to you. As she recalled her intergalactic writing experience in her office, she realized with a smile that she had the power to rid herself of that solitary feeling. Each scattered idea flitting through her mind was a friend, a lover, a companion. Each was a moment that she wanted the world to share with her. Each bridged the space between the desire to create and its fulfillment.
“Shana, you need to get ready for your meeting. I can’t do this by myself because I’m not the one who wrote this book. You did!” His tone was harsh, like he was reprimanding a child who didn’t do her homework. She rolled her eyes at his unmistakable sense of urgency.
“We have plenty of time, Tony.”
“Yeah, if you don’t do that Picasso thing on your face with the make-up, then maybe we’ll make it on time!”
“Whatever, I’ll be quick.”
Where did my galaxies go? I need to get away. Far away from here.