Apple Whore (kylefuetzvater) wrote in novelleidee,
Apple Whore


I was barely twenty years old and I was bored with my life; don’t worry kids not suicidally bored, just, bored. I was attending college like a good normal American who can barely afford it, living in my parents basement like it was an apartment, my Tomb, hoping desperately for the day when my writing would be spotted by some author or publisher and I’d become a millionaire and die surrounded by goregeous young men in a villa just outside of Paris; everyone in the world would be clamouring to attend my funeral. Future hopeful authors would read my grave stone in awe “Here lies Nella Anaid, Philosopher and Mistress of Prose, aged one hundred and twenty years, she died with a smile on her face and a congac in hand.”
And none of that was going to happen with me sitting in a basment in Mankato. I sat in my tomb one afternoon and stared at what my life was. In the last ten years since I had decided I was going to be a writer I had been on a quest for every book ever written in english on the art of writing. I had stacks taller than me of books such as John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction I had three different editions of MLA and APA handbooks, I had four different books with the title of revision. On shelves I kept boxes of almost every “Writers Digest” for the last ten years, Every volume of the local area literary magazines for my whole life, I had piles of blank books that had maybe all of five pages written in them, my plan having been to dedicate each of the blank books to one of my novels.

So there I was, on a lovely September afternoon, staring at my third hand laptop that was barely held together by a rob zombie and a Green day bumper sticker, when I made a decision.
I shutdown the laptop, slammedthe lid shut, and threw it into a bag along with The Vampire Lestat and a few changes of clothes; and with those few necessities I slipped out the back door and onto my oldest-and only until then-wild streak.
My uncle had given me for my highschool grauation, a 1936 Harley Davidson in red and black paint, nicknamed “The Dragon”. My mother was terrified of me killing myself on it a fact which only made me love it even more. So I fired Dragon up, and roared my way north to Minneapolis.
I recited to myself, like a mantra, Lestat’s words to Niki after Gabrielle had given him the money to run away:
“Don’t ask what we’ll do when we get there!” I said. “The important thing is just to get there.”
A mere two hours later I rode into the city proper along 35W and my reward for braving rush hour traffic was a glorious view of the downtown minneapolis skyline reflecting the bloody sunset, the Ruby City. I exited at Eleventh street and rode past all the things I’d always heard about: Central Lutheran the physically largest Lutheran church in america, Orchestra Hall with its ship smokestacks, the Nicollet mall. All the theaters, all the stores that we simply didn’t have in Mankato; it was beautiful, it was freedom. I had a little over three thousand dollars in my bank account (what was supposed to be tuition money) and a lot of naïveté. I was in Heaven.
I took a hotel room in the Hilton where I could look at the majority of minneapolis, and had a direct line of site on the WCCO building and Orchestra Hall. My plan was to find some cheap hundred dollar a month little hovel, where in the evenings, after working some sort of “Meaningless” day job, I’d write. The city would inspire me and I’d write my first novel about a brave young vampire making her way in “The Minneapple”. I’d become the brave young voice in horror writing and Anne Rice would finally respond to my emails. I was a one girl bohemian revolution.
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