More than one side to every story

More than one side to every story

Through a blurred haze in the midst of all this absurdity, surrounded by a dazzling white/ gold light that had no harsh effect on my eyes, I waited by the front door for a letter long overdue from the Harriet literary agency.
The chill from a cold April morning breeze whistled through the letter box and froze me to the bone. High anticipation for this day aroused my excitement to boiling point. As the months progressed the more the curious I got; a salivating need for the truth. Had I got in or not?
It’s been months since I sent the manuscript off to that small welcoming friendly team promising an enlightened future for new raw fresh talent and I still hadn’t heard anything. What’s taking them so long? Is this the usual protocol? Professionals from the literary trade putting me through all this torture waiting uncomfortably, fidgeting, for one single letter that’s left me very worrisome, one simple sheet with a fancy typeface for a letter head that holds my entire future, that’s obviously destined never meant to be delivered.
Waiting still in this surreal glowing atmosphere, airy and light, staring blankly out at nothing, my body manoeuvred; turning right, another angle, turning one hundred and eighty degrees, anti-clockwise. My face changed. I looked drained of life with no resemblance of me; all traces lost. Upset. My expression displayed nothing but sheer aggression. I barred my teeth. My face darkened turning a more obtuse colour. I looked horrific, distressed, almost ghost like; the shadowed manifestation of a darker representation of myself. Is this supposed to be really me? There must be a vicious more sinister side to me that I don’t understand and have never encountered; locked hidden safe from a world of innocence oblivious to this new design for evil. A side I can’t fathom. He scared me but I had to welcome him with open arms, he was a part of me, another shade, altered in shape and form, but still shot from the same barrel, even though eventually that Michael will push away those he loved and he will be alone.
It was a cold bright day in April and all the clocks were striking thirteen. I received my letter from the agency but I was rejected. I worked so hard on that manuscript for two years and the only agency I had admiration for didn’t want to know. I felt nauseous, a pinching sensation eating away at the pit of my stomach. Waiting this long for a response from my favourite agency just to be rejected, it was just so disappointing.
Many months later, I was rejected by more agencies. My writing was obviously that weak. I was so upset. Merely interested in badly-written predictable reduced for quick sale rubbish or alternatively referred to as erotic fiction, whips and chains and everything else sexually orientated. Who’s interested in that? Surprised there’s a market out there for it. The longer I waited the bitterer and twisted me got. Annoyance slowly devoured me piece by piece. I couldn’t bear to face my family. I felt like a failure to my closest loved ones. I moved out on my own; solitary now my only companion.

Back staring out at nothing the haze thickening getting harder to see, my body quivered and manoeuvred again turning clockwise this time, a better more positive direction. My face looked more peaceful more content than the last, spared of any sign of misery. I moved slower this time, turning another one hundred and eighty degrees smiling with a greater sense of positivity. My aura was radiant, like an angel ordained by heaven. I liked this version of me; like a golden beacon of light, a real aspiration, a man I could really admire.
A warm brilliant day in April, a year later, and all the clocks striking seven, luckier this time, and my book was a bestseller. The sales grew on a magnificent scale and became a world-wide success, putting my name on the map. My family adore it and me; praising me every day for my triumphs and life couldn’t get any better. I left my previous minimum-waged job for a career I could only dream of. I love writing. I get an overwhelming sense of achievement from it. Words can’t describe. My wife, Marilyn, embraces my well-earned success with hugs and kisses every day for making a better future for our family. I’ve made it. I’m respectable both personally and professionally.
It’s me this time. I’m still floating around here; comfortably lost in this mystical brilliant white mist but at least I’m back to normal. I’m me again. No more ‘good’ alternatives, using that word loosely, or the sickening side I know I’d come to despise.
I do love writing. I get so excited creating new characters and putting them through the paces; their unique emotional journeys, watching them grow and evolve into people I know and admire dearly. But as far as a profession, it’s looking very bleak. I’m content with my new found passion as a past time and I can’t wait to finish my next masterpiece so I can watch others gasp from surprise over my excelled brilliance.
I awoke quietly, glanced left and right questionably very confused and sat up straight very quickly. Looking down at my husband, Michael, I wondered ‘What the hell was that all about? Perhaps the agency’s contacting us today? Good I can’t bear the wait any longer. Michael needs to be brought back to Earth; he needs to know the truth his writing is dreadful but I’m not looking forward to the aftermath. He hates being told so’.