Writing Wednesday: Traffic Jam

Hello everybody, and welcome to another midweek Writing Wednesday post! Hope everyone is enjoying their first full week of June. It’s been quite nice, this one. Not too humid, which makes for great outdoors writing weather—or not if you’re like me and get distracted by nature.

Today, I’m giving you an exclusive sneak at the next Therapy for Souls chapter. This is the beginning ~850 words and in this scene, Parisa and her cousin Francesco are on their way to PalaLottomatica Arena in Rome to meet her team to see how the creative for the tour looks on stage. Their only problem: being stuck in traffic.

Hope you enjoy this excerpt, and I’ll see you later!

xoxo – Feb


Over the past month, my team and I have been brainstorming for the Autobiography Tour. It’s my second headlining arena show, so this has to be perfect. This tour needs to be visually embody the album and me in every aspect—the production as a whole needs to be on point. I’m obviously playing some faves from the first album, and hardcore Eurovision fans will not be pleased if I don’t tack “Un’ultima volta” onto the set list.

I’ve been stressing over everything since I’m such a perfectionist. We changed my Eurovision dress ten times and the staging, three times before settling on my dream vision for the song. We barely made a full dress rehearsal run through of the final product because everything constantly changed. If that doesn’t scream crazy perfectionist, I don’t know what does. You can imagine my relief knowing that Italy is one of the Big Five, which means I didn’t have to perform for votes until the final. I drove my entire team completamente folle! (completely crazy)

Seeing the concept we created come alive was the best feeling; I’m sure the results will be mutual once I see what the team has cooked up for me. This show is supposed to be my autobiography, an inside scoop into my life and my journey.

Last month, we thought of every pivotal moment in my life that paved the way for where I currently am in my career. We thought of colors and symbolism—fairy tale pink immediately came to mind regarding my name. For my Italian and Persian background, red, white, and green was considered. I don’t know how it will all piece together, but I’m eager to meet my team today to see the results and tweak everything to perfection…

Except I’m totally late and stuck in traffic because the fastest way to the venue is ironically through the busiest street in the city. I cannot be blamed for anything. I didn’t plant the arena in one of the densest sections of Rome. It’s also not my fault that my grandparents live in the country, twenty minutes away from the city. Yup, they totally can’t put the blame on me.

I sigh, sink into my seat, and kick off my rose heels. There’s no point in telling Francesco to drive faster. He’s been my chauffeur since Eurovision. What’s more, he’s family. He’d rattle on in rapid Italian about my impatience and how everyone will wait for me; they won’t go anywhere. Besides, he’s six years older than me and can definitely kick my ass. Not that he would—he’d NEVER hit a girl—but he’s still my superior even if he’s the one driving me around and not the other way around.

There’s no harm in trying…

“Do you know how long it’ll take to PalaLottomatica?” I ask. “I don’t want Giovanna or anyone else to worry. I think I should text Gi an estimate of how late we’ll be. You know how she is. Since that Ariana Grande concert attack in Manchester, she’s on edge about my whereabouts.”

Francesco rolls his eyes and turns towards me. His light brown eyes regard me in annoyance. He totally thinks I’m being a diva; his look says it all. Gritted teeth, a glare that seethes, and a stronger grip on the wheel create a recipe for one pissed off cousin. I’m pretty sure he could care less about my celebrity since it’s taken him to this level.

“Use your imagination, Reesa. I don’t know,” he answers in a surprisingly cool tone. He runs a hand through his short chestnut curls and sighs. “But if you really want to know what I think, tell her we might be there in a half hour. And tell her I’m sorry.”

“Gotcha…ragazzo amante.” (lover boy)

He lightly shoves my shoulder and I can’t help but giggle. I always knew he had a think for my manager, Giovanna Ferragni. Gi is the one who discovered me at fifteen. She saw my Youtube covers and was so impressed by what she saw, particularly my rendition of Mika’s “Underwater,” that she shot me a DM on Twitter. The rest is history. At just twenty-seven, she’s a young manager. Who knew she’d strike gold and an admirer when she found me?

We’re moving along now, but still at a slower pace than I’d like. Since we’ll be here for a while, I might as well turn on the radio. I reach over and push the button. Much to Francesco’s horror and my delight, it’s one of my songs. He stretches a hand out to switch stations, but I slap it away.

“Oh, come on!” he childishly whines. “Parisa, I listen you your songs enough as it i—“

That was then/This is now. Before the end it all came down. Before the end/It all went down, down, down, down, down,” I sing the chorus at the top of my lungs to annoy him. At least I’m on key.

“God, I can’t wait for this stupid traffic to end so I don’t have to hear your annoying voice forever.”


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