A Good Night for a Writer

I commit myself to writing just one page every day. Here is my page for today.

 

1/18/18

I watch from the bed as Tessandra dives into her tight, jean leggings, puts on her grey long-sleeve, and her blue thermo-jacket. There is something about a woman leaving that only makes a man long for her all the more. Especially when they are leaving as super models, all dressed up.

Of course, Tessandra doesn’t need to dress up in order to be gorgeous. Her very being is gorgeous. I can see that clear as day, every day, even when her hair is a mess and she’s in pajamas. Sometimes I find her even more beautiful when she is in PJ’s, in fact. Her naturalness, the freckles upon her cheeks, the naked ankle and feet, her breasts round and pert beneath the long shirt…it stirs within me a desire which all men (and simultaneously, none) can attest to. Ah, but Tessandra is going out for fine dinner with friends, and I am to stay home sick with a cold.

I am on the mend, thankfully. My nose is no longer running like a leaking faucet and my voice doesn’t sounds like glue and sandpaper anymore. I sit writing at the office desk with a cup of black coffee, listening to a groovy Herbie Hancock album. The dog is by my feet, providing me with company. This dog gives me contradictory feelings, sometimes. A part of me wants to reach down and pet her. She is so cute with her beady eyes looking up at me. Another part wants to kick her aside, as if she were in my hair. I don’t know why.

First rejection email from a literary agent came in today. One would think I might be bitter about that, but in fact, I am feeling quite the opposite. I feel encouraged, blessed, even, by this rejection. It is as if life were edging me on, saying, “Game on, you scribbling bastard you!”

Game on indeed. It seems life has met its match. It is an uphill battle…for life. I stand atop the hill, punching the keys like a madman with his tongue half sticking out, blowing raspberries. This is all fun and games, an absolute riot, don’t you see? I am doing what I love. Whether what I love is accepted or rejected a hundred times makes no difference. I am a fool consumed by bliss. I am an incorrigible creative machine. I am a decadent angel blessed with paper wings flying toward heaven — Hell, I am a writer, baby.

I have to take a break from typing this page in order to slam my fists upon the desk. I am euphoric, joyful, content and going nowhere! I have scared off the dog, who has ambled away to more peaceful corners of this house. This delightful, wretched little house, which is home to a maniacal powerhouse of literary pretension – a man with delusions of grandeur, in short. Yet it matters little – my paper wings are indestructible and as thick as a phone book. They shalt not tear.

I want to thank Miss Alvarez for her kindly refusal to represent my book. She truly does seem like a gentle soul, and although she rejected my book, she has encouraged me to search elsewhere. And search I shall, ‘till the end of my mental tether, if need be!

Consider all of this ranting as on omission of my insanity. I am, after all, not just any average bastard with delusions of normality. I am an artist following his obsessions – this is to say, I am following my dreams. Life is a phantasmagoria of delectable heavens! I shall pursue them ‘till the ends of the Earth, knowing full well the earth is round. Smile, baby. The muse is bright tonight, and I am gazing down high, impeccable mountains.

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