Jon Bon Jovi had given up everything for a chance to see stardom, including his highschool sweetheart Amelia Sambora.
Now as Jon approaches the most important and most dangerous moments in his professional life, Amelia has a way of making it back in...
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July 21st 1987 / Rumson New Jersey
One thing could be said without a doubt.
Bon Jovi were back to work.
Or at least Jon Bon Jovi was.
He had been scribbling down lyrics in his notepad for days. He’d hardly seen Amelia other than in passing, not even in bed since he usually slipped in around two.
He was like a machine when he turned to writing. Nothing or nobody could distract him from his craft, not even food or sleep. Amelia understood and refrained from interfering; she knew he’d make up for his despondency once he’d got it all out of his system.
Which was taking a good deal longer than anticipated.
She did her best to look after him while he worked. She brought him coffee every few hours along with assortments of snacks.
One particular morning, on the eighth day of this songwriting tirade, Amelia found him sitting in his office, swivelling on the desk chair with his feet on the table whilst anxiously penning a lyric.
“Good morning,” she greeted, not bothering to mask her slight annoyance that he hadn’t bothered to come to bed that night.
“Mornin’.”
His eyes didn’t divert from the paper. She’d never seen such a concentrated look on his face, his brows had never knitted quite so tightly before.
She placed a coffee on the table by his feet and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Earth to Jon.”
He grunted a quick dismissal, humming a quick tune as he wrote.
If she didn’t know him better she’d think he were annoyed at her.
“Jon. It’s time for a break.”
He finally looked up at her, shaking his head as if she just didn’t understand.
“Look babe, I’m sorry but I’m working.”
“I can see that. And if you want to continue working I suggest you drink your coffee.”
He scoffed and grabbed the coffee from the table, taking a sip with one hand while continuing to write with the other.
A maniac.
“I noticed you didn’t come to bed last night.”
“I know, sorry. I was busy, I’ll make it up to ya.”
“Busy writing? All week? I’ve let you be this long because I know how you are with songwriting. But a week with such little break is no good for you, not when you’ve started to miss out on sleep.”
“I’m fine. When inspiration hits you’ve gotta use it.”
He’d hardly looked at her once.
“I know that. But you can’t write good songs when you haven’t slept. Why don’t you come to bed?”
