What readers imagine it is like inside the PJH writing command center:
I tap effortlessly away on my trusty laptop, working on my next best seller. The words flow as if they are strummed tunes upon an angel’s harp of gold. I puff on the last draws of a fine cigar; a facet-cut cocktail glass filled with a top-shelf scotch, poured neat, sits next to me. In front of me, some gorgeous brunette sits, dressed in a clinging, black cocktail dress, with a plunging neckline. Around her neck, dangles an expensive gemstone necklace that I bought for her and it guides the pathway to her glorious cleavage. Her green, cat-like eyes glow with love, her mouth is laced with seduction and her soul broadcasts endless yearning. Her hair tumbles in glorious waves over her shoulders and falls perfectly upon her body. Gorgeous does not actually describe her. It is more as if she is Heaven-sent. A whiff of her amorous perfume captures me and I find it difficult not to be carried away on the clouds of heavily, perfume-filled desire. The dwindling light of the flames of the logs in the fireplace in the room catches a hint of the gold in her earrings and the wisps of the reflection of the gold lick my eyes with tastes of seduction. She sips a glass of fine red wine and seductively, crosses her long legs, lasciviously displays her black stilettos and allows the hem of her dress to creep up her legs. Her legs begin in Australia and end up in the Yukon Territory.
When I pause in my writing, the woman winks at me and in a low, sexy growl asks, “How about we take a little break together, Paulie? You can return to your writing . . . in a few hours, or two or three. That is, if you have the strength.”
She gives me a seductive wink and my legs crumble underneath me.
Oh wait, I am sitting!
What really happens within the PJH writing command center:
I close my laptop in anger, because it is locked up again, I lost an entire chapter file, and honestly, it does not matter because the storyline sucked big-time. If I can overcome the writer’s block on this stupid story, I will be surprised if it even sells more than two copies. My dear mum always buys one and so does my sister. This story sucks so badly that I do not even want to buy a copy. I adjust the wooden block under the broken table leg of my writing table. The block holds the table up and when I slammed the cover on the laptop, the block moved a bit and the table listed to portside. It is hotter than 17 Hells in here because the A.C. is out again; I ran out of cheap, drain-pour, light beer, so I sip flat seltzer water out of a plastic cup, while eating stale potato chips. I cannot even afford to buy a decent beer. Or fresh potato chips. Or a new table. No ice in my glass because the freezer is out of order. The only company that I have is Jeff Lynne and E.L.O pounding away in my ear buds. Since I need to take a break and since I have an empty life as a frustrated writer, I pull out my smart phone and pass the time by opening the Uber App and amuse myself by watching the little cars cruise around my neighborhood. The neighbor’s music is so loud and pulsing that the walls of the apartment beat and drum to the beat of some stupid hip-hop nonsense. I pull my ear buds out and listen hard. Wait! The artist stole a hook from Jeff Lynne! I swear that is the riff from, “Do Ya.”
Another lost file, another lousy story, another wobbly table leg, and now it is, time to hit the hay.
Oh well, at least, Jeff will make another quick million or two, because some dopey dude stole his hook without permission.
Hmmm . . . maybe, I should poke around Raymond Chandler’s work and see what I might be able to hoof. After all, he has been gone for a bit of time. No one will notice.
Suddenly, there is a knock on the door, and oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention that it is a dark and stormy night. Can you say, Cliché? Anyway, I part the curtain and see a gorgeous redhead at the door. Holy Guacamole! My luck is changing!!! She looks lost and desperate! Maybe, my ship just arrived in port!
Oh wait, she is just dropping off a package from the Amazon.
I recall that Mum sent me some new underwear because moths had eaten holes in all my old stuff. Okay, this is good. An exciting adventure. I get to open a box! From the Amazon! Thanks, dear Mum! Yup, it is new underwear.
Hey, let me open that app and let’s see where those little cars are now. Cool. Two are gliding down the main drag. Look at them suckers go!
It is painfully obvious that I am easily entertained.
Cheerio for now.