I imagine this is how I’ll make my entrance.
Burgundy velvet. Intricate embroidery. Leather gloves. Sunglasses indoors, because apparently subtlety will no longer be among my virtues. Dressed to the nines, perhaps even the tens. Unapologetically extravagant.
Not because I need the attention, mind you. By then, I’ll simply assume attention knows where to find me.
Supremely confident. Charismatic. Charming. A wicked sense of humor, a touch of arrogance, and just enough self-awareness to make the arrogance entertaining rather than insufferable.
I’ll be the eccentric gentleman who has earned the right to be eccentric.
I can already picture myself strolling into some ridiculously exclusive literary gala, surrounded by celebrated authors, publishers, critics, wealthy admirers, and people who use words like zeitgeist in casual conversation.
And there I’ll be, perfectly comfortable, not because I consider myself superior to anyone, but because I’ll have absolutely nothing left to prove.
Inevitably, someone will approach, examine my magnificent ensemble, and ask:
“Don’t you think your outfit is a little excessive?”
I’ll lower my sunglasses just enough to look them in the eye. “My dear, I haven’t even begun to be excessive.”
Then I’ll smile, accept a glass of champagne, and continue on my merry way, leaving behind a faint suggestion of expensive cologne and questionable humility.
Of course, the delicious irony is that I’ll have spent years doing what I’ve always done. Writing stories, inventing characters, wrestling with sentences, chasing ideas that arrive at inconvenient hours, and occasionally wondering whether anyone besides myself will ever care about any of it.
And then, somewhere along the way, perhaps the world will finally catch up with my imagination.
I’ll be able to afford to be as flamboyant on the outside as I’ve always been on the inside. The money will have bought the coat. The writing will have earned the confidence.
But here’s what I suspect will actually happen. After the gala, the applause, the champagne, the photographs, and the obligatory mingling with people whose names I’ll promptly forget, I’ll return home.
I’ll remove the sunglasses, peel off the gloves, hang up that magnificent burgundy coat, and wander into the kitchen looking for something to eat.
Maybe I’ll make myself a sandwich. Maybe I’ll have some ice cream. And somewhere between the refrigerator and the kitchen table, I’ll find myself thinking about the chapter I wrote that morning.
That one paragraph. The one that still doesn’t quite work. And I’ll probably sit down to fix it. Because beneath all that glorious burgundy velvet, I’ll still be the same fellow who fell in love with putting words on paper.
A writer.
Just one with a considerably more expensive wardrobe. And frankly, I see absolutely nothing wrong with that.
After all, if one is going to dream, one might as well dress appropriately.
Leave a Reply