Page 17 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
That kind of dedication made me feel ahead of the game. Like I was racking up an invisible advantage, day after day—starting my work while everyone else was heading to the office, hopping onto garbage trucks, walking into loud factories, or pedaling around for deliveries.
And by the time they dragged themselves home, I was still right there, in front of my Olivetti, dark circles under my eyes and my fingers practically welded to the keys.
There was no contest, I used to think.
The gap would only keep growing.
And yet.
After years of early mornings and shattered keyboards, the high priest of the publishing world tells me: “Your words don’t pulse with life.”
Translation: I’ve written mountains of perfectly useless crap.
So maybe he was right. Maybe the guy who works nine to five, then squeezes in half an hour of writing at night—while his dog barks, his baby cries, and his wife yells from the kitchen—maybehe’sthe one whose pages pulse with life. Maybehe’sthe one who makes Mr. Bronson sit up straight with a literary punch to the face.
So what’s the point of all that technique?
Down the drain.
What really matters is life. Lived life.
And me? Holed up at home with my blank pages and cold coffee? Yeah, not much life lived over here.
Yeah, not much life lived over here.
But whatever. That’s all water under the bridge now.
I found Tess in the living room, perfectlybalanced on an imaginary tightrope between the couch and the fridge. On her head, a book. And no—notthatbook. She’d never dare use the Countess’s sacred manual as a mere posture aid. This was some random paperback, the kind you grab at a gas station, with a faded cover and a gold-scripted title.
“Look! Look how good I am!” she said, gliding across the floor like a queen in exile.
“I have a natural gift, don’t you think?”
“The new phase: exercises to become someone you're not. Fascinating.”
The book slipped off her head, but Tess caught it midair with theatrical flair and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Pretending to be someone I’m not? What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying, if you’re starting with posture, clearly you’re trying to become someone else.”
“I’m still me, Bea. Your charming friend Tess, who loves horror movies, kind people, and underdog stories. I’m just doing an exercise to better express my dignity. My inner royalty. My goodness of soul, you know?”
She lifted her chin with the solemnity of someone delivering a speech to the Senate.
“From now on, you won’t see me looking down in shame ever again. No. My gaze will be locked straight onto yours. And it’ll say, ‘Yeah? This is who I am. Got a problem with that?’”
“Fascinating theory,” I said, while starting to make myself breakfast with all the excitement of a lifer facing a bowl of muesli.
“Ask any car salesman,” Tess went on undeterred, “they’ll tell you I’m right. Selling and seducing? They’re twin sisters. No—scratch that—they’re the exact same thing.”
“Is that a quote from the Countess?”
“Nope. That one’s mine. Original. Copyright Tess, 2025.”
She took a breath, leaned dramatically against the kitchen doorway, and launched into a monologue. “When you’re trying to sell a car, what do you do? You wash it, wax it, shine the tires, make it gleam. You show it at its best. You don’t lie. You highlight the potential. Now tell me—if someone turns a clunker into a dream machine, are you really gonna say, ‘Eh, but it’s not authentic’?”
I watched her as I poured the milk. She was on a roll.
“See, I’m not selling cars. I’m selling myself. And if I want anyone to take me seriously, I need to radiate charisma. Grace. Respectability. Every gesture has to be a promise of perfection... or at least a teaser.”
