"Give me something stronger than tea, George. Please," I say, taking a seat at the table and opening my notebook. I scan the story I would have read...if any guests had arrived, but can't bring myself to finish and shut the cover.
"It's best you stick to tea until your work is finished. Your writing production declines when you start drinking in the morning."
I won't bother to argue, George always knows best. I'd be angrier if it wasn't true, but it is...though I refuse to let him know.
A smile almost breaks on his lips, but he restrains himself, as always. How very rare it is to see emotion from him.
"Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Ella?"
I shake my head and he leaves. After the door shuts, I close my eyes and attempt to relax my shoulders. Rubbing at my temples with one hand, I take a deep breath and exhale. I need to shut all the home drama from my mind if I am going to get any work done on this novel. How can I concentrate when my days comprise of FBI visits, dead bodies, day drinking and other crazy shit that happens in Vegas?
George enters and serves tea in silence. I try to imagine he is not there. I'm not in Vegas as all. Not in my mind anyway. Today, I'll spend my hours in Westeros. The greatest thing in a novel is its ability to allow me to leave this reality and fully resonate in the alternate world of that fiction. Only the storytellers can do that for me.
He leaves once more and I am left alone. An inspiration hits me and I push the book to my left away from me and walk to the bookshelf against the wall. Removing the book I desire, I find my way to the writing desk. I turn on the computer and select music.
"It's time to work," I say out loud, holding a copy of 'The Great Gatsby' in my hands. Reading a few lines, I close it and put my hands on the keyboard.
"Bring in the prisoner," A voice announces and the crowd roars.