Page 124 of Wicked

One miserable novel.

My life is one piece of paper. One, lone messy scramble of words. As I sob and keep my head down, I try to work out where I’d started to fail. A stupid quote then comes to me, and it is ridiculous:

Only at our lowest point, do we achieve the impossible.

I mumble it a couple times and I feel tears fall. I wipe snot from my nose, flip up my laptop, and I type fast.

With my heart ripped into pieces, and with nothing to lose, I write the last three pages of the novel.

It’s more of a cosmic mental dump, and I type fast through wet eyes. I also feel more than I think. As my fingers move on their own, I feel like a dazed moron, streaming connective, and universal morals.

I don’t even know who or what part of me is telling me to write. All I know is, I did not plan it, and I cannot stop.

I hammer away for thirty minutes in the manic haze, and once I finish, I don’t even check it.

I then do this…I send the novel away to the only publishing contacts I have at major companies. They are people I’ve met through mutual contacts, and some of them are hot.

My cover email is short and to the point. Unlike the novel itself.

My action is insane, but I’m broken.

I slam the laptop closed, and I know I have to control myself. What I’ve just done is reckless and unplanned.

It is so unlike me, but me… is failing… And I’mno good.

As I hold my legs and cry again, I start to rock and unravel. Minutes later, I calm down, and I look out the window as a large jet moves forwards. The large metal bird that will take me home to the messed-up little life I have in NYC.

Back where I belong.

Alone, sad and confused.

That gets me thinking, and with the book out there in the universe, and with whatever the ending is, my shoulders feel freer.

I grit my teeth, yank out my phone, and I type a short email. I reread it, hit send, and I lean back, with a sigh.

I hereby tender my resignation with immediate effect! PS. Fuck you.

Now,I am free!

I am also making moves. Maybe screwed-up moves, but I am making moves. That is when I realize I’m financially screwed.

52

DANTE

I stagger in with Tito and I slam the door to keep the world outside. Sitting next to the fire, I pour a whiskey and toss wood onto the embers. I rub Tito’s head, and I knock back the fifty-year-old whiskey.

The hot liquid goes straight to my core, and I lean back, making a pained growl.

“Figlio di puttana!” I yell out of character.

Motherfucker.

I pride myself on remaining calm, but even I have my limit. Having the entire nation against me was not on the cards.

Finding Raven’s horse and letting it free was one thing, dealing with the media circus, another. I should not have let her run, not like that. Too much was unsaid. Way too much.

I watch the wood catch fire, and flames leap. They match my burning soul, and I think about Raven and me, and then the castle. The theme park is now a train wreck. The huge drop in ticket sales will likely wipe us out.

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