Finding my star-shaped sparkly self, tip #1: Set a goal and visualise it down to the minute detail.
“You should have this for your book launch,” stated the dark-haired Vixen-slash-Damsel, as she shopped Melbourne till it dropped. Her friend (possibly me), Poor Melting Sod that she was, scraped an exhausted pair of foot gullies into the shopping centre floors behind her, watching the gruelling vibrancy of the Vixen-Damsel. Poor Melting Sod was all knackered out by the writing of a book which takes a bloody long, never-ending time. (But once, I promise, she used to be fun). She had been rejected – and it had broken her spirit and confidence. She had been assaulted by many mountains (sick kids, the passing of her wonderful Nan, and a millennia of missing sleep), and now, although the dream to be a fabulous authoress still hovered, the motivation had evaporated into thin Amazon.com air.
Poor Melting Sod Book Writer looked at what her friend was presenting: A red glittered clutch. It would fit nothing – not her hand santiser, and definitely not two packets of tissues, because her nose always decided to run like a cheetah at such important events. And her 24-hour long-lasting nasal spray? No way. No, it wouldn’t fit her grey-brown rain jacket which scrunched down with great difficulty into a self-pocket, nor her medicated blister or corn pads. All she could see was how the chunks of spiky glitter would scratch the pale, sensitive skin on her arms or pull threads on the grey-brown Millers polyester shell suit jacket she always wore. “Hhhhm,” the Writer sighed at the effort aligned with carrying such a sparkled burden.
“And – look at these! Matching shoes!” squee-ed Vixen-Damsel, fit to burst and blinding Poor Melting Sod Writer with a rainbow of twinkling red glitter shoved almost up her troublesome nose.
The Writer stood back and took the offending item off her friend, to make a show of looking at it politely.
But something happened.
Suddenly her hand drew down to her foot, and with all the worlds grace slipped the gloriously high heeled twinkling transformer onto her slim, well-moisturised (very important) foot. Like Cinderella, it was a perfect fit. Slow and fairytale-stylee, the Writer poured another slim foot into the other shoe. Also like Cinderella, the Book Writer began to feel a magic transforming her body, her mind, her grey-brown outlook on life. She stood tall, opening up the concertina that was her permanently hunched over writing-a-book pose.
And then she saw it:
The red carpet out the front of Sydney’s Town Hall. The train of her gold lace Alexander McQueen gown (yes, she thought, I can do Princess Katherine, yes I can) fluttering about the glittery red glamourshoes like an enormous pair of twinkling fairy wings. Her fans, so deep she couldn’t see where the crowd ended. Swirling spotlights, and possibly a wind machine to fix her bad hair life. Copies of her book being waved in their thousands for her to sign (thank goodness she’d got that signing double for such a job, she thought). Sydney’s George Street blocked off from all traffic, for her! (light rail schmail). Her waist three sizes slimmer, her wrinkles miraculously melted away to reveal her true 27 year-old self, and her mind set on the ensuing awards and rip-snorter party to come (with no sign of any children waking her at 5am in the middle of a stomping hangover). That glass of Krug was beckoning; I will be there soon my friend, she beamed a blinding white-teethed smile about the throng, no sign of the usual lipstick smudge all over her pegs.
“Such words, such brilliance, I could only hope to be like you one day!” exclaimed J.K Rowling (she’s an author too, moderate success). “Your metaphors are gripping!” crooned Stephen King. “Heartbreaking – you do female authors proud,” exclaimed Barbara Kingsolver, surrounded by Danielle Steel and Arundhati Roy. “Poetry – genius, and always poetry,” came the low, Latin voice of Paulo Coelho. “Thrilling, I don’t know how you do it,” rushed past my ears on the voice of John Grisham, and “a true epic,” enthused Ken Follet. She focussed on the perfectly pointed toe of each red glittered shoe as it climbed the stairs to the stage, and wondered what nail colour she would chose to match them for the New York Pulitzer Prize announcement. A kiss from George and Brad as she began: “I would like to thank…..”
“So are you going to get them?” bounced about her friend like popping popcorn, back in the dimly lit Melbourne shoe shop.
“Well, I think I have to. You can’t be a fabulous authoress in grey-brown shoes now, can you?”