Each night – maybe not every night but at least once per week before going to bed, I imagine what it would be like to be rich. We’re not talking here about being a “thousand-aire” but really rich. Since millionaires don’t run in the family and being a writer, the yearning for wealth has remained strictly in the dream stage. Still as long as there’s life, there’s hope…at least that’s what "they" say.
There is a plethora of how-to books out in the market place offering the way and means to achieve success and accompanying riches by merely visualizing one’s objective. In other words, dreaming will make it so. Shades of Walt Disney! Buying the books certainly help the authors fantasies come true by making them rich and prosperous.
Still, it would be nice to be able to go out and shop-‘til-you-drop and name drop famous designers.
"Oh it's just a little something I picked up at Dolce and Gabbana, dahling!" I would tell anybody within hearing range about the big-bucks outfit I had just bought.
Being rich means that I’ll be able to walk into any office supply store and not get “the look” for trying out all the lap top computers and not have to supply the excuse of browsing when approached. When a sales clerk appears I’ll merely smile and say, “gimme your most expensive model, please! I’m a writer!”
Being rich is the ability to take trips to stimulate my creativity and imagination wherever and whenever the mood hits. A mere phone call to a travel agent to book a trip around the world is all that’s required, first class of course. No plastic cutlery or pedestrian table wine and I’ll smile patronizingly with a “been there – done that” look on my face as they pass by to use the first-class bathroom.
Being rich suddenly eliminates invisibility.While visiting Paris I’ll emulate Hemingway while sipping a café au lait at a sidewalk café while watching the world go by and in Rome, I’ll freely toss Euros into the Trevi Fountain because I can. Tourists will gasp in awe, pondering my identity and begging for my autograph after which they will whisper to each other: “is she famous?”
Being rich will allow me the opportunity of producing my plays without having to depend on the “kindness” of others. Of course they will be wildly successful and critics will laud them with wonderful write ups in newspapers.
“Where has this playwright been hiding?” they will ask readers. “A definite ‘must attend’ they will say of the play.
Being rich means being able to take advantage of movie premieres and theatrical productions anywhere in the country, and knowing the producers and performers by their first names.
“Is Paris here?” I will ask the host. “What about Angelina and Brad? Aren’t they supposed to fly in?”
Being rich means never having to line up while waiting for a table in an up-scale restaurant. The mere mention of the family name and fame as a writer will be sufficient for waiters to go rushing around and moving diners from the primo tables to make room for us. There will be no more waiting to be served or munching on stale bread sticks while signalling madly for a waiter as a reminder of our presence.
Being rich allows one the luxury of moving in to a dream home replete with servants to handle the drudgery of cleaning the oven. Asphyxiation from oven-cleaning products will be a thing of the past. Never again will there be fights over who unloads the dishwasher…or make the beds…cut the grass and other mundane, every-day chores.
Reality check here.
Upon waking up and looking out the window, there is always the expectation and hope of seeing the publisher’s clearing house truck pulling up in front of the house, along with a brass band and someone walking up the path holding a million dollar check in their hand. So far it appears the truck has lost my address but I’m sure it’s just an oversight.
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