The Self-Destructiveness of an American Writer
Today I welcome to the blog my antho buddy, the lovely and talented, Em Petrova! Here's her snarky look at writer-ly life (with much alcohol) and an excerpt of her story, Bachelorette, from the MY SEXY VALENTINE anthology!
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The life of a writer:
10 am: Wake up to the tooth-grinding noises of jackhammers and picks on every crease of your brain.
10: 01: Grapple on your nightstand until you find your bottle of Stoley's and bring it to your lips before cracking open an eye.
10:02: Spill copious amounts down your bare chest. Hmm. Curious. You went to bed fully dressed. Perhaps a mystery lover accosted you during the night. Or the aliens returned.
10:38 Wake up again.
10:39 Where are you?
10:50 Stare at the cobweb in your corner has given you a stunning idea for your story. Cobwebs, spiders, and pigs.
11:30 Stumble through apartment, stopping on the way to your desk to rifle liquor cabinet.
11:50 Half bottle of fine bourbon downed to fortify you for the written word. After all, Hemingway said, "A man does not exist until he's drunk."
12:00: God, a Bloody Mary sounds good, doesn't it?
2:00: Wake up slumped over laptop, wondering if you have more bourbon, where the fuck your clothes went, and what that great idea for your novel was. In that order.
2:01: Slip out of your chair to the floor. Curl into the fetal position and rock. Pee a little.
2:10: Fuck it. You're a great writer, but no one understands you. No one, that is, except Jack Daniels.
*****
Bachelorette-by Em Petrova
a novella from My Sexy Valentine, a Valentine's Day Anthology available from Sizzler Intoxications
EXCERPT: RATED R
Kiki emptied the box of candy Conversation Hearts into her palm and nudged them with a chipped fingernail. She plucked out a pastel green heart which read, "home run," and popped it into her mouth. Then she dumped the handful of "I love you's, UR Cute's, and Call Me's" into the trash.
Her stomach burned from adding more sugar to the bottle of champagne she'd downed today. What the hell time was it? Her head pivoted on the sofa cushion, where she reclined like a French courtesan in a filmy white nightgown. Her bridal nightgown. Trimmed with antique lace, and tiny seed beads that outlined her voluptuous breasts. The one Reardon was supposed to strip off her in the penthouse suite of the Waldorf Astoria on the first night of their honeymoon.
Heaving a sigh, Kiki leaned over the sofa and located another bottle of Grand Siècle champagne. The bottle opener lay on the side table, along with the wedding announcement done in beautiful sheer vellum and hand-lettered by a calligraphy artist, sporting the happy couple's picture.
Her stomach flipped at the physical confirmation of her dashed dreams. No Park Avenue home, no foil-wrapped wedding gifts. No handsome groom, smiling at her from the altar at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. No, just one hundred crates of the candy hearts that she'd ordered as a fun twist on their Valentine's Day wedding. When Reardon hadn't liked the idea of the cheap candy hearts spoiling their upper class reception, she should have seen it as a red flag.
She popped another green heart in her mouth and crunched it up. Her molars were jammed with candy, and she'd probably gained five cavities in the past week since her fiancé had jilted her. Didn't matter now. The instant Reardon told her he couldn't go through with the marriage, her life had ended. What did a few blackened teeth matter?
Kiki reached for the champagne, which they were to toast at the reception by candlelight. Her eyes swam with tears. Her nose was raw from blowing, her throat burned from emitting countless sobs. The days leading up to the breakup were a whirlwind, but she sliced them apart bit by bit, trying to find the root of the problem. What misstep had she made?
Across the room, her cell vibrated on the marble-topped table. She cracked her eyes and glared at it. Over the past week, the phone had ringed incessantly. At first, she jumped up, tripping over her ivory heels to get reach it, breathlessly hoping to find Reardon on the line, begging her forgiveness. She had images of him appearing at the Paris flat where she stayed, bouquet of winter roses in hand, grinning his toothpaste ad grin, hair falling boyishly over one eye.
The phone stopped vibrating. Kiki began counting aloud, swigging from the champagne bottle between numbers. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." She raised the bottle in toast to the cell as it began its tireless vibration again.
"Hi, Daddy," she said into the empty apartment and without budging from the sofa. "Yes, I'm fine. Just came in from a run. You should see Paris at this time of year. Yes, the tulips are up. The Champs Èlyssès is glorious. Can't talk! I'm meeting friends for brunch. Capote sends her love. Byeeee."
Her English bulldog, Capote, lifted her head from the satin cushion by Kiki's feet and gave her a disgusted stare, unhappy to be roused from her sleep by the sound of her name, or pissed that she was trapped in this apartment with her master for the eighth consecutive day, with only the twice daily relief of a walk in the park with Olivier.
Olivier worked for Kiki's father in the Parisian branch of his business. One call from Daddy, and Olivier had come running. And thank God for him too. Without him, she'd be out of champagne.
The cell lay still, and Kiki brought the bottle to her lips. She had to pee, but if she stood up, she knew the world would tilt. She was horribly drunk, but still lucid enough to remember every final word of her breakup with Reardon. How she'd dropped to her knees and clung to his thighs and begged him. How his fingers felt on the crown of her head as he said his parting goodbye.
Alone. Smashed to fucking bits. No Spode China, no Waterford Crystal. Just half a million candy hearts, a fourteen-thousand dollar Vera Wang gown, her faithful doggy, and champagne.
Kiki tripped to her feet and stumbled into the side table. The antique lamp toppled with a crash, and she clutched her head as the noise penetrated the sensitive creases of her brain. Capote's manicured paws hit the floor and she started her low growling bark, further shattering Kiki's head.
Kiki sank to her hands and knees and crawled toward the bathroom as fast as she could with her legs tangled in a nightgown and a bottle tucked under her arm. She was going to puke. Wouldn't Reardon love to see her now? Maybe he'd suspected this side of her all along—the self-destructive trashy side. The woman who could stay drunk for a week, wearing only her bridal garments.
As she made her slow way to the bathroom, she sniffed her underarms. God, when had she last bathed? Maybe it was time to get out of this god-awful nightgown and wash her hair. It was stuffed into a messy bun, not unlike what she would have worn under her veil. Without the greasy locks framing her face, of course. Capote ran along behind her, sniffing her other unwashed parts.
Em Petrova is a writer of hot, lover of all things coffee, devotee of books, and worshipper of the iPod. She penned her first novel at the age of twelve, and after gaining an arts degree, has returned to her literary roots. She loves to dig deep into the souls of her unique characters and uncover their secret desires when she doesn't have her nose in a great new read. You can find more about her sexy stories at http://www.empetrova.com
Other Works by Em:
Runes
Tattoo Dream
Isolde's Wish: coming March 1 from Loose Id. Watch the trailer!
