Me & My Readers

My day begins in its usual fashion, with writing on my mind.

After participating in a daily Writing Prompt with Facebook Friends, my mind sails off to a sea of research for Chapter Seventeen. I speed read; the ghost of my future publisher beside me, his arms crossed, his brow raised.

These days, I create my own deadlines because no one else will. It is necessary in order to ensure that I'll have them later. It is a peculiar irony, and one I've grown accustomed to. My freedom is not so free and blind faith rests patiently (sometimes anxiously) on the shoulders of my imagination. I cling to my faith as would a nun her cross. It is all that I have... but not really.

I have the support of a group of readers who believe in me.

These readers make my heart pump strings and strings of gratitude-tickets, like the ones at an arcade. If I could, I would lasso them around my shoulder like a rope and turn them in for buckets of prizes for my readers. I would hand them out lavishly, ditching the phony rings and creepy plastic spiders made in China.

My readers deserve only the best.

They are genuine and I know every last one. I see them as a write. I hear their encouragement, feel their belief, and wonder what they're in the mood for. Today's research is on catching a fugitive and, as I immerse myself in the article, I'm amazed by how much I do not know.

Most high-profile fugitives are captured within a few days. I grab one of my son's shoddy homework pencils and circle high-profile. The character in need of these facts, Steven Roth, would not be considered high-profile. I ponder this, the pencil's eyeball printed body resting against the word. Someday I will use the swanky gold pen that lies like a corpse in its velvet case in my makeshift office - a desk decked with Christmas decorations, stacks of professional folders, and picture frames.

Someday.

Feverishly, I etch down as much as I can about the police procedures, envisioning my own characters breathing life to the words. My mind begins to draw the scene, the smells, the expressions and, mostly, how all of this relates to my protagonist, Serena Davis.

The pencil glides softly against the white paper (which is actually the backside of one of my son's corrected homework papers). Someday, I will use a fancy stylis to 'program' my research into a tidy blackberry that will alphabetize files and talk to me. Perhaps it will tell me what to write about, too.

For now, I allow myself a quick indulgence - a few doodles. The doodles become hearts and they remind me of my readers again. I draw a few more and I'm tempted to scrawl in 'Me & Reader' but PG (my publisher-ghost) hovers and slinks aroud me. He is not impressed and I sense his gloom, reel myself back in. There will be no more doodling. It's time to produce.

I note-take until satisified with what I need for the next chapter and take a shot at writing the scene for a smart audience. The blank sheet of Microsoft Word's paper affronts me with two words: Chapter Seventeen. It is daunting, this task--the only one for me--and I'm suddenly overcome with the urge to check my e-mail. I rationalize that my writing partner needs my help revising his latest, remarkable chapter and editing is the fuel for new material, right?

PG is not buying it. I smell his entitled breath and settle my fingers on the keyboard. The setting I'm about to write takes place in winter. Given that our town has been buried by consecutive snowstorms for the last month, the season surrounds me. And besides, just this morning, I received feedback on the suggested prompt: Tell me about your morning commute.

Thanks to my readers, my first paragraph is born.

The roads, along with Lori’s state of affairs, are a mess this morning. Her Jeep tears through a slushy main road, the tires spitting dirt like cake batter mixed on high speed. Having sex with Doug is the least of her problems. It was stupid and lustful and weak. What was she thinking?

Curious about reading more? Stay with me. My heart pumps tickets for you.