Continued from yesterday...
Who is in Control?
He is there—the protagonist. God, he is gorgeous! If ever I want
to commit adultery, it would be with him. That’s silly. I’m divorced now and it would not
be adultery. I could give myself to him willing. But it can’t be. He is in love
They are sitting there holding hands and smiling at each other. She envies her. Her with her long, blonde hair, good looks, and a body that makes truck drivers do a U-turn for another look. She wishes she had her legs. Mental note; must give them both names.
The antagonist is there too. She hates him with a passion. He reminds her of her ex-husband, a mind so twisted and cruel and yet cunning. Somehow, he will get what he deserves. She will make sure of that. The others are there too but for the moment are not important.
He speaks. What an angelic face. She decides to call him Angel.
“Good, you are back. Where did we leave off? Yes, of course, I was trying to rescue my true love from the castle.”
“Over my dead body,” says the villain.
She decides to call him Blackheart. It may be too descriptive, too obvious, but it will do for now. Besides, it makes her feel better.
Blackheart continues, “I will stop you, and I will throw you in my dungeon to rot.”
She speaks with a voice like butter melting on a baked potato. She decides to call her Mary, using her own middle name. Now they have even more in common.
“If you do, I will rescue him and we will be married and live happily ever after.”
Baked potato? Where the hell did that thought come from? Then she remembers and rushes to the kitchen. Too late! The potato in the oven is now black and crispy. It looks like another PB and J sandwich for dinner. She grabs a newspaper and fans the smoke detector. When she gets it to shut up, she returns to her chair. Her guests have remained motionless, waiting for her return.
“Too trite,” says Angel, picking up where they left off. “It has been done. Is this a fairy tale? We can do better than this. You might as well tie Mary to railroad tracks and I could ride in on my white horse just ahead of the train. Come now, people, think!”
“Perhaps we should modernize it a bit,” says Mary. “You know, make it more relevant. Make it Chicago, or New York.”
“Not a bad idea,” says Blackheart. “I could be the rich tycoon and Angel could be an intern. Mary could be my sexy administrative assistant whom I secretly desire.”
Angel scowls, “Sound more like a reality TV show. Let’s be original.”
After a while, she gets the courage to speak, “Women still fantasize about knights in shining armor, castles and damsels in distress. Their own lives are like a dungeon and they want to be rescued.”
Angel, Blackheart, and Mary stare at her for a moment.
Blackheart breaks the awkward silence, “Get real, will you? Besides, this is not about you. What do you know about romance? You made a mess of your own marriage.”
“Blackheart!” shouts Mary, very annoyed.
“Okay, that was a cruel even for me, but the point is; this is your first novel since your divorce and while this may be therapeutic for you,
it may not be interesting to your readers. We, on the other hand, have been
through this a thousand times and know what readers what. So, sit back, pay
attention, and we will get you through this.”
“Blackheart, you are an ass,” interjects Angel. “What Blackheart means to say is that we can help you write this book. And what is with the name
‘Blackheart’? That is you talking and not a realistic name. Kill
“Wait a minute! I like that name,” protests
“You would!” says Mary, still annoyed. “What about ‘Angel”?
Turning to Angel. “Honey, I love you but I can’t make love to an angel. That has
to go too. Will someone get that stupid doorbell? I can’t think straight with
The doorbell startles her. She goes to the door and signs for a letter. It is an offer from her publisher for her novel. Her guests remain
motionless, waiting for her to return, but she does not return. She takes this
opportunity to escape upstairs to her computer to work on her
As she starts up the stairs, Mary’s voice rings out, “Where are you going, Honey?”
“Upstairs to work on this novel.”
“Okay, we’ll wait here for you. And while you are at it, kill that ‘voice like butter melting on a baked potato’. That is just too much.”