Where the Balenciaga-clad Writers Get Butchered

This morning, in the middle of my grandiose meeting at [insert massive publication here], my brain decides to go on autopilot, and enter a reverie about the final ending of my novel; I was under the misconceived illusion that she wouldn't notice that I was really not all there. It was just a body sitting on a Herman Miller chair, dressed in all the rage. You can leave, [insert boss name here] says, "You aren't really listening to me, Desiree."
"What?" I say. "NO, I am!" really, as if it wasn't that obvious that I was deliberately lying to her. "Well, yes, you are right, I wasn't listening, I'm sorry" I say, as I abruptly get up and walk out of her office- she stops me in the hall and says it's okay, I know it's that time of year, which I had no idea what she meant by that.
"What do you mean by time of year?" I ask her, as I look down at my ornate shoes; feeling completely embarrassed; already feeling the horrific terror; as I faced her; finding myself utterly incapable of explaining that I was thinking about the ending of my novel and not work.

"You've been through a lot this year and I know that I've been tough with you, and I get you. I was your age once and I can relate with my own life story and I may not always talk about this with you because I know that you've always found your way to get back on track and get over things and tough it out. I admire your strong will to overcome all of the shit that you've gone through. Listen, I have lived much more than you have and I have seen the entire world and you've only seen a quarter or just a gist of it, and it's ok."

What the in hell is all of this? So I asked her to explain herself and she shrugs and says, "Listen, it's really ok. It's obvious Des, you need a month off," laughing a bit in a way that I could not explain it; since the entire dialogue quickly catapulted off somewhere and completely took a life of it's own; you are only left with the thought of just going along with it, not to risk going further into disarray. I smiled at her and agreed that she was right.

We went back in her office, we continue to talk about the profundity of my writing, why I write and what I love about the magazine- after she asks me where I plan to be in the upcoming year and I tell her to please stop staring at her laptop for a moment. I felt that I needed her to look at me and I needed her to listen carefully to what I was about to say. This is serious and I'm not going to continue pussyfooting around it any further. I can finally say what I've been anxiously wanting to air; which almost feels like timing is everything these days. Indeed, this convenient disharmony of dialogue that seemed almost disdain at first; she beautifully orchestrated it and it has worked out much better for me. Anyways, I told her about my novel(s) and talked about [insert other imperial powerhouse publication] job offer while I was in Paris. She then starts up with the typing on her laptop, now making it seem as if this conversation has now become my contract review, really, which needed to happen but I was globetrotting for fashion weeks. She continues to type away, then pauses for a moment and tells me that one of the main reasons why she can't seem to let go of me; is because I possess an effortless and very unique style of writing that engages the reader, almost as if they were sitting in the front row of New York Fashion Week. "I don't want to ghostwrite anymore!" I blurted out loud. I suddenly apologized for the outburst and I told her that I was sorry, and explained to her how many hours I spend soliloquizing what I've wanted to say to her. She then asked me if I wanted any of the editor positions that are opening next month. I look up at the ceiling and I explained that I didn't have an answer for her.
"Listen, Des, marinate on it, and get back to me by the end of October."

What? Did she just say marinate, as in, immersed in seasoning? Exuding confidence, I shrugged it off, I told her, okay and agreed about that month off. She suggested 2 weeks in November and 2 weeks in December. That works well for me and I just may take Michelle's invite to Colorado; when the clouds have finally parted and the powder is well settled. Again, timing is everything.

Later, I am back in my apartment finishing my book and not in bed, but at my desk. I am completely exhilarated and confident that writing books is the only thing I will ever know, that I want to do. Writing is my true love. Not all the Chanel, Balenciaga or the McQueen in the world is worth it. I am grateful for all of what my eyes have been able to see and all the amazing and inspiring places that I have travelled to. I know this is only the beginning of a blissful road ahead of me. I think that my castle-building daydream in the midst of a work meeting, at 11 am ET has only pushed me the more. I have lived and breathed writing books on most nights, knowing that there is nothing else that I love more. My transcendental function in life. A dream, when evening comes.