The New Royal Creative

His pen barreled down towards the page with such vigor and excitement, but almost just as quickly his hand pulled up in a jolt, coming to a complete halt, whilst his brain became fogged and flooded. Overwhelmingly full, and unexpectedly joyful… frustratingly and unusually muddled. He didn’t quite not know what to write, but much the opposite. What would be good enough ? What did he know for sure ? … What is it that he could possibly know for sure ?

His pen after all had betrayed him before.

“What would I say first?”, “How would I say it?”, “Is my lexicon practiced enough to convey the exact extent of love overflowing from my being?”, “ Is it careful enough to remain eloquent?...”, his brain yelled these colloquial questions and listed them on and on.

In a moment, the flood of thoughts quickly slowed by the sudden awareness that his very own face was currently betraying him. His foolish eyes were following her every move so diligently. So obviously announcing to the whole room where his attention was, and the bothersome ends of his lips would not stay in the place they were supposed to! They kept turning up, so he brought a few fingers up to his lips to conceal his idiotic giddy expressions.

He looked around at his table of mustaches and top hats and breathy conversations to ensure nobody noticed his wandering focus. However, the roar of conversation in the room, the glittering lights, the shimmer thrones and décor, and the glasses of champagne had all ever so kindly captured the attention of his acquaintances. Never had he been in a room so expensive, but by request of the King this was to be his new “normal”. Talent, after all, can take young people new places.

Quickly, he threw his attention around the ballroom just to ensure that anyone who might have been watching him was sure to understand that he wasn’t just studying the Princess but the entire room… for writing purposes of course. He quickly glanced at some poufy sleeves, bedazzled dress heels, fancy handkerchiefs, and satin gloves looking all too interested.

“Surly we have convinced anyone that was for some strange reason noticing our attention, that we are just curious…” his brain logically reassured him. He allowed his eyes to continue looking at the Princess. But the question still remained: “How to do her justice?”

He chuckled to himself and with a swift breath, as he had done many times before to help with writer's block, he wrote what he saw.

“Exquisite. Dainty, but sturdy, beautiful, but functional, gracefully unattainable, yet personable. A walking paradox. The Princess is everything and nothing all at once, the hardest part of ‘female expectation’ to live up to. Her fingers were thin and capable of creativity and she used them well, placing them kindly on shoulders and gently on babies foreheads. Hands of a Goddess some might say and in the present moment, joining firmly with some brutish harry knuckles, extended in question for a dance. The music started and she moved swiftly and decisively. Beauty incarnate. The room did not melt away, nor did the music drown out, but conversely the room became animated. Colors were brightened, faces illuminated and nothing was happening at all at that very moment other than the Princess taking to the dance floor. A rich gift to the lucky onlookers. Her white dress was garnished with golden trim and miniature red flowers at every detail even down to the bottom hem. That very hem made specifically for her height sat just a breath above the floor, so when she moved, as refined as she did, it appeared as if she were floating somehow. Absolutely bewildering. If angels do exist and do ever in fact peek in on our humanity, at this very moment they were indeed weeping- ”

Page after page for the next few minutes, he droned on knowing he would have to stop much too soon. Knowing that if anyone of importance were to see him write so intentionally they would surely ask to see what it is he was writing about, and he would be at a loss to tell them. After getting down as many selfish details as he could, he pulled his hand away from the page, capped his pen and slipped his little black notebook into the interior patch of his dress coat.

Many other notebooks existed in his desk drawers, coat pockets, and various chests, but none were as special as the little black one. The little black notebook was his secret and his alone. It came everywhere with him and was somehow never full. It held his darkest embarrassments and most raw personal truths. Ironically enough, the little black book was not filled with titillating ideals or female names, but brimming with sticky sweet stories and sickening songs. Long-winded limericks and lyrics alike. As well as, dreams and doodles that doted over his deepest desires, and practically pitiful promises and proposals for pussyfooted pipedreams.

It was full of undeniable childlike hope and aspiration (his most unfortunate weakness as a man of concrete science and as a distinguished wielder of the pen).

His will to live would simply disintegrate if anyone were to see the contents of his little black notebook; not to mention, if anyone knew just whom he previously wrote so furiously about his ability to live might just be… "limited", as the towns people like to say. By the dash of a sword or grip of a rope.

The King could never know nor could his employer, and lucky for him those were the same person, so he had half as many people to worry about. However, one may say that is perhaps unlucky.

But when thoughts like that came creeping in, “To each his own”, his brain rationalized, “There are certainly ups and downs”.

Unfortunately, the writings about the Princess were priceless, with a million different nuances and notes. Written with aim and wherewithal, worth a working world and a half, yet into his pocket they sunk destined to remain hidden.

As his tan freckled hands pulled out of his velvet lined pocket, they felt a rectangular piece of paper brush his fingertips and his already notable stress doubled. He pulled the piece of paper out to the edge of his pocket so just he could see,

“20,000 dollars I.O.U given: by Royal Decree of The King for: The New Royal Creative ‘Johannes Draper’”, read the check.

For a moment, he analyzed it and it’s meaning and shakily put it back. 20,000 dollars in a check from the King to write stories, songs, and histories. Saturated with opportunity and practically dripping with irony. With it, he had money and direction to become the Kingdom’s new master of storytelling. This check was only a morsel of the King’s glorious wealth, but to Johannes it was everything he had ever hoped for.

Hope that he will one day be able to write whatever he wants. Hope that ultimately one day he will receive another check for work he is wholly proud of, possibly one big enough that will allow him to compete in the romantic arena he dreams of. Hope that he will be able to always associate his real name with his writing, despite the heritage and no matter how raw, raunchy, or revealing his writing may be.

Hope for the kind of financial status that will allow his little black book to land in the hands of any reader, on any given day and his worries be silent.

Hope he needed.

It had been a long time coming.

He patted his coat pocket and gripped his vest, then swallowed some air and with a scroll in hand he walked over, ever so calmly, to the dance floor to record the dance that would certainly be the conversation starter of the week.

“Ahh,” in a rasp he quietly sighed.

Releasing all the feelings and emotions that had just rushed through him, he managed a collected expression; and without a second to spare. From above the crowd, he caught the blue eyes of the jaunty King, who threw him a delighted and intoxicated wink, and wrinkled his red nose, wiggling his white speckled mustache and beard.

“Give him a nod”, his brain directed him, and it was so.

Out of respect and nervous tendency, his eyes then fled to the ground. He looked to his feet. Somehow, they were still moving him toward the dance floor one step at a time.

“Gratitude and Solace” his brain repeated in a whisper, “Gratitude and Solace”.