Sarah E. Moffett

Writers writing should not join gamblers gambling. It’s just bad. And writers should definitely not go gambling when in the midst of writing a book. It’s just stupid.

But, oh so much fun.

When I walked into the grand and wide marble foyer, I was willingly drowning in the persuasive waves of ringing machines, purified oxygen and pulsating energy that signals one thing—CASINO. I followed Sinatra’s favorite leading lady, Luck, straight to the roulette table where I turned a crisp Benjamin (do they come any other way from a Casino ATM?) into $300 on numbers 12, 23, 27 and 20, and then in a wave of grandiose narcissism turned singles into nickels to spin my way up to $500.

Kids, this is when you walk away.

But of course, I didn’t.  (If I had left, it would have meant Chinese water torture–i.e. working on book 2.  No thank you.)

In a haze of increasingly strong drinks and turns of the wheel, I turned nickels into thin air faster than Houdini.

I told myself it was because of too many Jack and Cokes, so I promptly ordered another one and had a second go that lasted as your attention span to this blog.

So again, kids, this is when you walk away. Lady Luck has left and you should just follow her out the door.

But the lights were so pretty. So quoting Ocean’s Eleven thru Thirteen to myself, I powered up for redemption in the form of Black Jack, with another several Jack and cokes on the side. And did redemption ever come. Up from $200 to $800, I should have walked. Proving that I have absolutely no common sense and am incapable from learning my own mistakes, I did not.

Ever lose $200 on a -15 card count? Oh yes, that was me.

So now I’m home, nursing my bruised ego, empty purse, and throbbing temples. All of which has taught me a very important lesson. I absolutely, unconditionally, completely and totally must finished reading the Duluouz Legend.

After all, if Jack can’t make me feel better, nothing can.

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