Brain Food Read Online Free PDF Page A

nowhere in a goddam hurry. I stuck with you as long as I could, but come on. A bust is a bust.”
     
    “And now?”
     
    “Now you’ve reinvented yourself. You’ve done it, Stan! And not only that, you’ve surpassed yourself. I mean, Circle of Ash went number one faster and stayed longer than any book I’ve ever seen. And the sequels? Automatic bestsellers. Plus, the movies are going to be box-office gold. You can’t miss, Stan. You shit diamonds, you beautiful man. I love it!”
     
    The TV studios were much smaller and more compact than he’d imagined. The audiences seemed right on top of him, and they were excited. He’d never seen so many people so happy to see him. LIVE! With Kelly was the first stop of the day, and when they called his name, the crowd went wild.
     
    “So, Stanley,” Kelly asked after everyone got back into their seats. “Tell us, what does it feel like to be such a creative mastermind?”
     
    All at once, two hundred people laughed hysterically, then broke out into a hearty round of applause with a mixture of hoots and hollers, mostly from the women.
     
    Stan smiled meekly. “You know. This might sound a little corny, but I just see myself as an ordinary person.”
     
    “Ordinary? Stanley, do you understand just how many lives your stories have touched? I mean, and I think the audience will agree, your writing is much more than just writing. It’s got soul, it’s got meaning. You, sir, are one of the all-time greats…” she kept speaking, but the audience didn’t let her finish. It was the first time, actually, Stan felt the true power of his work, and that power haunted him. He knew, deep inside, the real author of those stories, the real creative genius wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one to be congratulated or honored or given such high acclaim. It was the brain food.
     

 
     
     
     
    9.
     
     
     
     
    Later that evening, after the interviews, the appearances, the luncheons with every TV and movie executive in town, he retired to the penthouse suite of the New York Hilton, overlooking Central Park. Candlelight slinking in the breeze, he sat beside a crackling fire and began writing on his laptop. Even with the endless hours doing promotions, he forced himself to work. Of course the brain food helped, though he had to eat more and more to achieve the same effects. And the effects were wearing off quicker the more he used it.
     
    Dun-Dun! Dun-Dun! Dun-Dun! Dun-Dun!
     
    His phone played the theme from Jaws , signaling a call from his agent. He didn’t want to answer, but did anyway.
     
    “Hey, sweetie,” her voice was extra-syrupy. “Just wanted to remind you that we have a five a.m. wake up tomorrow, ‘kay? They go live at an ungodly hour at Good Morning America . How’s the suite? Any problems?”
     
    “No problems, Phoebe.”
     
    “Good, because I’ll get on that manager’s boney ass if you have any complaints, any complaints at all.”
     
    “Phoebe, nothing’s wrong with the room,” he browsed the marble columns, the Monet on the wall, the high ceiling inlayed with copper tiles, the observation deck with massive infinity pool, dropping into an endless New York City skyline. “Now let me get to work.”
     
    “Oh, you powerhouse, you. Work, work, work. I’ve never seen anyone like you. You work more than I do, and that’s saying—”
     
    “Goodbye, Phoebe,” he hit the call end button and got back to writing, though things seemed sluggish. He’d begun what he considered his finest work yet, a thriller wrapped inside a mystery with the façade of a love story. He’d devised highly engaging, yet highly flawed characters, engineered an intricate, multi-tiered plot with so many twists even he was having difficulty keeping track.
     
    After failing miserably to write a vital chapter, he stopped and gathered himself, working up enough will to tear away from the computer and enjoy the view from his forty-seventh floor veranda. He should have been