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🎶🎶
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
And I can't get enough of you, baby
Can you get enough of me?
Tonight
I wanna see it in your eyes
Feel the magic
There's something that drives me wild And tonight
We're gonna make it all come true
'Cause, girl, you were made for me
And, girl, I was made for you
🎶🎶
Michael was blasting the song in his living room and doing push-ups.
After finishing his push-ups, he went to his washroom to take a bath.
"They have already started shooting," Michael thought.
The shooting of *A Good Girl's Guide to Murder* has started. All the cast members were announced, and the shoot is happening in Somerset and Bristol, England.
The surprise was that Michael was again one of the executive producers on the show; somehow Evans convinced them. Well, he doesn't even have to be on the set and doesn't have to work on the project. All he has to do is go to the set and talk to people.
The executive producer tag he had was for namesake.
"Well, day after tomorrow I am set to go to England for a visit. It is going to be a nice vacation," Michael thought.
After getting out of the shower, he called Evans.
"Hey!" Evans said excitedly.
"Hey, when is Thomas LeClair coming?" asked Michael with frown on his face.
"The people from The Paris Review said he would come around 1 o'clock tomorrow," Evans said.
"Uh-huh...okay, talk to you later." Michael cut the phone.
"Okay." Evans said with a deadpan look on his face.
________________________________________________________________________________
Thomas LeClair, the interviewer from The Paris Review, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. He was used to interviewing brooding, chain-smoking novelists who spoke in riddles about the human condition.
He was not used to a twenty-one-year-old who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"So, Mr. Owen, this is your first time giving an interview, right? Since you don't give interviews, it has been very hard to write anything about you... but of course, you are very young. I don't think; you would think about publicity a lot," Thomas asked, leaning forward with an encouraging, literary smile.
Michael stared at the audio recorder on the table as if it had personally offended him.
"Are we not going to talk about the adaptation of my book, or are we going to dilly-dally?" Michael said.
Michael's manager, Evans, let out a sharp, panicked cough.
Thomas blinked, his professional smile freezing. "Uff-okay, let's start... So, how did the idea of a whodunit come into your mind? We have seen you writing in genre like tragedy, but never a book like this?"
"I started writing A Good Girl's Guide to Murder when I was very young. It's 2023 now, so it's nothing new. I was always fascinated by thriller and mystery stories." Michael obviously lied.
"Wow, a genius, I have to say," Thomas said, recovering quickly and leaning back into his pretentious intellectual persona. "With only two books, you have captured the hearts of multiple generations. I also got to know that you are the executive producer of the upcoming Netflix series and even personally recommended the lead actress for the role of Pip. Now, my next question is, are you optimistic about this adaptation of your book?"
"I don't know. I will be going to England tomorrow for the set. Let's hope it will be good," Michael said.
"Uh-huh!" Thomas swallowed hard. "Next question... how does it feel to be the most loved author of this generation at the age of just twenty-one?"
"The money is good," Michael said with an innocent smile.
Silence descended upon the house.
Thomas stared at Michael. Michael stared back. Evans covered his face with both hands in the corner of the room.
"The... the money?" Thomas finally stammered, his finger hovering awkwardly over his trackpad of his laptop. "But surely, Mr. Owen, as an artist, your primary drive is the exploration of the profound, often painful depths of the human psyche?"
"My primary drive is a matte-black Porsche 911," Michael corrected politely. "But the human psyche is nice too. It pays for the gas."
Thomas cleared his throat violently. "Right. Fascinating. So raw. So postmodern. Let's pivot to your creative process. Readers have noted a whiplash-inducing contrast in your work. First, a soul-crushing, tear-jerking tragedy about war survival. And then, a teenage girl solving a small-town murder with a microphone. Thematically speaking, what is the connective tissue between these two masterpieces?"
Michael thought for a moment. "Well, people die in both of them."
"I—well, yes, literally, but I meant metaphorically," Thomas said, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. "What is the message you are trying to send to the world?"
"Read my books so I can buy my parents a boat," Michael answered instantly with a smile showing his teeth.
"A... a boat. I see." Thomas took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was spiraling. He had prepared a ten-page thesis on the existential dread hidden within Michael's prose. "Let's talk about the casting. You fought hard to cast an actress known for a bright, colorful, comedic role as your gritty true-crime protagonist. Many critics called it a massive gamble. What did you see in her that the Netflix executives didn't?"
"I saw her on my TV," Michael said truthfully. "She told someone hoodie roomie. It was very convincing."
Thomas looked up, waiting for the rest of the profound artistic explanation. There wasn't one.
"That's it?" Thomas whispered.
"It was a very good howdie," Michael clarified. "You'll understand when the trailer drops."
"Mr. Owen," Thomas said, sounding slightly desperate now. "You are an enigma. You write with the weary, broken soul of an eighty-year-old war veteran, yet you sit here giving me the answers of a pragmatic accountant. Who is Michael Owen?"
Michael glanced over at Evans, who was frantically making a 'smile and be deep' hand gesture.
During this, something clicked in his mind.
"Will I become a true author someday?" Michael thought.
Michael looked back at Thomas.
The silence in the house suddenly felt incredibly heavy.
"Who am I?" Michael repeated, his voice dropping into a quiet, steady rhythm.
He leaned forward, looking directly into Thomas's eyes.
"I am someone who wasted a lot of time," Michael said softly. "I used to be someone who didn't matter. Someone who didn't help, who took his family for granted, and who expected the world to just hand him a purpose. And then, one day, you wake up and realize how incredibly fragile everything is. You realize that you can be gone tomorrow, and the world will just keep spinning without you."
Thomas stopped writing.
"You ask why I want money, why I write tragedy and murder, why I demand so much," Michael continued, his voice echoing with a raw, undeniable truth. "It's simple. I am just a person looking for the three things that actually matter. I want love. The kind of love you have to earn every single day from the people who wait for you at home. I want respect. Not the fake respect people give to celebrities, but the deep, quiet respect you get when you look someone in the eye and prove you are exactly who you say you are."
Michael's gaze didn't waver.
"And I want unyielding success," he stated, the words practically vibrating with conviction. "Not for a magazine cover. Not for a trophy. I want unyielding, unstoppable success because it is the only armor we have in this world. Success means you can protect the people you love. It means your voice is loud enough to actually heal people. It means you cannot be erased."
Michael sat back in his chair, his eyes still burning with that quiet, intense fire.
"So, who is Michael Owen?" he finished, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "He is a man who refuses to be forgotten. I will write until my fingers bleed, I will take every opportunity, and I will build an empire. Because I finally know what my life is worth, and I refuse to waste a single second of it."
The room was completely, painfully silent.
Evans was staring at Michael, his mouth slightly open, his hand frozen over his phone.
Thomas LeClair, the senior correspondent who had interviewed the greatest living minds of the century, realized his hands were shaking. He looked down at his arms.
He had goosebumps.
Thomas slowly clicked his pen, swallowed the lump in his throat, and looked at the young man across from him with a completely new, profound level of respect.
"Mr. Owen," Thomas whispered. "That... that was beautiful."
Michael offered a very small, genuine smile. "Thank you. Now about that boat..."