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My Autumn Love,

I’m on the verge of writing a grant for a school district. $4.5 million. They’re testing me. Someone in the mix came across my romantic proseworks, stumbled upon my poetics and put two and two together.

Not sure of the creative scribe behind the digital word-display, someone dug deep beneath the cyber-anonymity–my name somehow surfaced.

They discovered my record for funding. They want to know about the Art of the Ask by Rg2. They want to decode it, “assembly line” it something akin to what Henry Ford did for manufacturing.

Love, they want to know my trade secret(s). I said nothing to effect . . . just listened; released nothing from the vault within. Between heartbreak and romance, it’s proprietary. Besides, I left grant writing alone some time ago, having ventured on a creative road not taken. Not even paved.

But now I’m asked, compelled, to revisit my past–for the good of young minds in need of educational funding . . . to impact the future.

How could I say no?

“But $4.5M?” I finally spoke, even-keeled, staring off in the distance of the conference room. “Why so little? Why not $45 million?”

The panel, seemingly in unison, reared back in their seats, eyes widened, disbelief in each of their countenances.

I sat there, waiting for someone to agree with my audacity, my gaze still fixated on an imaginary door affixed to the upper wall behind them, as if baiting me to open it and walk through, leading them all to that funding promise land.

I didn’t know what the hell I was saying. Then again, there was no one else, alive, in the world who could have sat in my seat and said with confidence what I’d just uttered. I knew it. I knew it like my father knew my mother would fall in love with him and love no other man subsequent.

A grant is a love letter. No more. But men, people, nowadays, don’t write love letters. Not because they don’t want to. They simply don’t know how.

I was born to.

My father produced my copyrights. DNA issued and ensured. My mother owns them. I’ll never sell. But I will share–with deserving young minds in need of technology, books, and an academic blueprint for the future.

I’m gonna snag the $45M, as God is my witness, and I’m gonna do something beyond that, what most other grant writers can’t: Cultivate and engender “repeat” funding thereafter.

With you in mind. Yes, you in my stream of thought and creativity. Each man needs a motivating force to elevate his inherent romance gifts.

And you’re mine, woman.

By the way, My mother doesn’t own “all” of them. Open the envelope while I pour us a chablis. Yes, the certificate bears your name. You’re the third-largest shareholder of Rg2 RomanceWorks, Inc.

Why?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

Ever Yours,
Rg2

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The Art of Romance.

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®