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"Get paid to write!", she stated incredulously. "You have got to be kidding me! I love to write." Desmond waited for her as she paused.
Together they looked through the glass. The sunlight streamed around the many buildings, banners, and steps as if even sunlight had to struggle to enter her living room to deposit a tiny ray of light. Desmond knew this struggle well for himself. But what about herself, she pondered. Forget the sunlight struggling. What about her own struggles?
In her pain, Amber related so many things to her "struggle". But when she began writing she forgot herself for awhile. To write was for her as parachuting is for others. Desmond who despised even his own name actually loved Amber. He allowed her pauses in thought that no one else put up with so she loved him back.
She thought that perhaps if she actually had something of her own, she might one day have enough reserve to love Desmond even as he loved her. But Desmond didn't have anything either, and still knew how to love her.
Her pause this time was even too long for Desmond. He cleared his throat even though there was nothing to clear in it. She took his cue and said, "It'll never happen".
Then Desmond put his foot down, "Even Faulkner started out by writing pulp fiction. And this isn't even pulp fiction!" Amber quickened at his statement, and said, "OK! I'll get paid to write!"
"Will you love doing it too?", Desmond asked her. "Yes! But I will write other stuff for myself elsewhere," she insisted. Desmond noticed the gleam in her eye was brighter than the bit of sunlight entering through her window. He laughed to himself at the very thought, and smiled at her without saying a word. He reached over and tapped on Amber's tablet: [please contact me for website address] Then he said to her, "Amber, it's all yours."
Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved by Amber Jose