I’m one of those writers who likes to interact with his characters. I believe if you create strong characters, they will help write the story, solve their own problems and overcome their obstacles. It might look this short story below. In this story, Dr. Andrew, the director of a large hospital emergency room, is the protagonist. His love interest is Margaret, a nurse and the Director of Nursing. The antagonist is, of course, the Covid-19 virus. I’ve inserted myself into the story to talk with the main characters.

Love During a Pandemic

“Don’t get excited, Margaret. This is Monte Anderson, the author of this novel.”

“What? You’re Monte Anderson?” she asked. “I thought you’d be…”

“Younger,” Dr. Andrew interjected.

Margaret laughed. “I was going to say taller but younger with do.”

“Okay, okay. Knock it off. I’m glad to see that during this pandemic, you two still have your sense of humor.”

“What bring you to the ER?” Dr. Andrew asked.

Margaret turned to face him. “Two of your nurses tested positive this morning. I sent them home to self-quarantine. I thought I would fill in.”

“Thanks,” Dr. Andrew said as he touched Margaret’s arm. “We can use your help.”

Margaret turned back to face me. “And while you’re here, where are the sex scenes? Your working title is ‘Love During a Pandemic,’ but I don’t see any sex scenes.”

“I’m trying to build the sexual tension between you and Doctor Andrew. On page 89 you two take a break to go on a date.”
 
Margaret stepped closer to me. “I read that part. There’s no sex.”
 
I shrugged my shoulders. “The sex is implied.”
 
Margaret folded her arms. “That’s bullshit. Sex is implied when you used the word ‘Love’ in the title. Oh, wait... There’s no sex because you can’t write about sex.”
 
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I can write sex scenes.”
 
Margaret stepped even closer and poked me in the chest with her finger. “Then prove it. Andrew and I can help.”

“Do you think it’s appropriate for the two of you to stop and have sex in the middle of a global pandemic?”
 
“Yes,” they both shouted.
 
“That what the story line is all about, ‘Love’.
 
“I’ll consider it. I’m rewriting several parts. I can in throw in a few sex scenes.”
 
“Then do it for God’s sake,” Margaret said. “You’re the author. Hurry up and quit wasting my time.”

“I was also thinking that the protagonist needs a challenge or obstacle to overcome,” I said.

“What the hell?” Margaret and Dr. Andrew both yelled.

“We’re in a pandemic, “Dr. Andrew reminded me. “The ER if maxed out. We have no beds left in ICU, and the patients keep coming. That’s enough of a challenge. I can’t handle any more. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to this challenge.”

“Good point,” I said.
​
[If you don’t want to miss any of my blog posts, follow me.]

I’m one of those writers who like to interact with his characters. I believe if you create strong characters, they will help write the story, solve their own problems and overcome their obstacles. It might look this short story below. In this story, Dr. Andrew, the director of a large hospital emergency room, is the protagonist. His love interest is Margaret, a nurse and the Director of Nursing. The antagonist is, of course, the Covid-19 virus.

Love During a Pandemic

Dr. Andrew walked around his overcrowded emergency room filled with sick patients dying from the recent pandemic. He wore a protective suit with a face shield over his facemask. He reviewed the white board used by the nurses to track the patients. Several had been crossed off in red. There was no legend for the color code, but everyone understood red meant they had died. Dr. Andrew hit the wall with his gloved fist. The white board nearly fell down. Everyone within hearing distance stopped and looked at Dr. Andrew. Then with a nod of their heads, they understood his frustration and returned to their work, hoping to save someone.

“Pardon me,” I said.

Dr. Andrew turned toward me. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Monte Anderson,” I answered. “I’m writing this story. I just want to discuss a couple things with you?”

“You’re Monte Anderson, the author?” Dr. Andrew asked in disbelief. “I thought you were younger. I definitely thought you were taller.”

“No,” I replied with a chuckle. “It’s really me. In the flesh, you might say. Can we stop the action for a minute to discuss a few details?”

“What the hell? You want me to stop in the middle of a global pandemic when every second could mean life or death?”

“I understand your concerns, Doctor, but you must realize this is all fiction. It’s just a story that I’m writing. This is just a rough draft. I’m going over it now to find tune it.”

Dr. Andrew shook his head and threw up his arms. “What the hell. It’s your story. Go ahead. What do you want to discuss?”

I glanced at my notes. “Well, for one thing, and this is minor; I didn’t give you an accent. I think I should.”

Andrew shook his head again. “Why do I need an accent. I’m from America and your audience is also. I don’t need and accent.”

“I looked at my notes again to see what I had written. “Well, that’s true, but later—around page 12—it is revealed that you were born and raised in Texas. People from Texas have accents and talk a certain way.”

Dr. Andrew placed his hands on his hips. “What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

“First of all, you talk just like me and I’m not from Texas.”

“Do you think it matters?” Dr. Andrew asked.

“I do,” I answered.

“And how do Texians talk, pray tell?”

“They use words like ‘y’all’, ‘fixin’ and “corn-fed’. They might use expressions like ‘Bless your heart’, ‘might could’ or, ‘dad gum it.’”
 
Dr. Andrew shook his head in disbelief. “And you think a doctor from Texas who went to medical school at New York University and did his residence at Harvard Medical School would still have a strong Texas accent?”
 
“Good Point,” I said. “I may have to rewrite that part. Also, I think I may have to add some distinct features to your character.”
 
“Like what?”
 
“I’m not sure. Something that says ‘Texan’. Maybe you could wear a cowboy hat.”
 
Dr. Andrew smiled. At least I think he smile under his face mask. He pointed to his head upon which he was wearing a cap which covered his hair.
 
“Or maybe cowboy boots?” I suggested.
 
Dr. Andrew pointed at the booties that covered his street shoes.
 
“Okay, okay. I have to think about that,” I said. “But maybe we can do something about your non-descript face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“I’m thinking maybe you should have a mustache.”

Dr. Andrew laughed and pointed at his facemask. “No one can see it with this mask on.”

A voice behind me said, “No mustache.” I turned to see the beautiful Nurse Margaret walking up. “And who is this person in the ER without a facemask?”
​
[To be continued on my next blog. Stay tuned. If you don’t want to miss any of my blog posts, follow me.]

I know I’ve posted this short story several times, but I love it. I hope you do too.
 
How to become a Bestselling Dead Author 

Joe Regan was a writer. His suicide note was not his best piece of work. It simply read, “Fair well cruel world.” Joe took all the sleeping pills and sat down in his recliner. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking into the face of his agent, Bernie Blackwell.    

Bernie smiled and brushed back Joe’s hair. “Hey.”   
 
“Hey. Oh, my head hurts.” Joe looked around. “Where am I?”  

“You are in St. Thomas Hospital. I found you and called 911. The doctors pumped your stomach. You’ve been in a coma for five days, man.”    

“Oh. I don’t know if I should thank you or not. I just wanted to die.”    

“I know, man. I found your note. Why did you do it?”  
  
Joe smiled. “You’re my agent. I think you know why. My novel has been rejected by 45 publishers and I haven’t earned a dime in three years.”    

Bernie chuckled. “It’s 47 publishers now. I didn’t get a chance to tell you about the last two. However, while you were in a coma, I’ve been busy. I posted your suicide note on a few key social media websites and wrote what a tragedy it was since your novel’s so great.”    

“My suicide note? I didn’t say much in my note.”   
 
Bernie smiled. “Yeah, well, I sort of rewrote it. I also went ahead and published the e-book version of your novel. It’s going viral. We sold over 10,000 copies in four days. We now have offers from three publishers. I think if you had died, your novel would make the best sellers’ list.”   

“Lucky me! I have to nearly kill myself for my novel to sell.”    

“Joe, what do you expect? You wrote a romance novel about gay pygmies living in San Francisco-not a great genre. Anyway, since you really don’t want to live, would you consider killing yourself? It would mean a lot to me. I could help.”   
 
“What! My novel is finally published, and you want me to kill myself? Are you crazy?”   
 
Bernie shrugged his shoulders. “No big deal. Come on, get up. I brought a wheelchair. I’m taking you out of here.” He handed Joe a glass of water and some pills. “Here, take these.”    

Joe took the pills with the water. With Bernie’s help, he got into the wheelchair. Bernie wheeled Joe out of ICU and headed for the elevators. Bernie pushed the up-call button for the elevator.    
“Where are you taking me?”    

“Don’t worry about it. I’m taking you to the tenth floor. The second elevator is out of service. I should be able to open the doors there.”    

“Bernie, I don’t feel so good. What were those pills?”    

” Sleeping pills.”

“I took four. Am I supposed to take that many?”    

“No, man. You’re supposed to take only one every 12 hours.”    

“Won’t that kill me?”   
 
“No. It’ll make you comatose. In your condition, you won’t notice that the elevator’s not there. The fall from the tenth floor will kill you.”    

“But Bernie, I don’t want to die any more. I want to live.”    

“Listen, man. I’m telling you. If you die, we’ll make the best sellers’ list. We’ll be able to negotiate a big contract. We’ll attract more talented writers.”  
  
“We? I’ll be dead.”    

The elevator arrived, and Bernie pushed the wheelchair inside and pushed the tenth-floor button.    
“Well, yeah,” said Bernie. “Quit thinking about yourself for once. Did you even consider me? This is my big break. When I post your next suicide note, I’ll sell a million copies of your novel. Plus, I’m sure I can get a six-figure advance for your next novel.”   
 
“My next novel? I never wrote a second novel.”

“It will be found among your things after your death.”    

“Bernie don’t do this. I don’t want to die.”    

“Quit being selfish! Close your eyes now and rest. It’ll all be over in a few minutes. You are going to be a bestselling author. Congratulations.
​
THE END

Yes, Dear--A Short Short Story
​
Some time ago while I was still working (I have been retired for 9 years), my wife asked me if I was having an affair with my secretary. I’m always quick with a flip answer, so without thinking I said, “I should be so lucky.” Now I was married long enough to know by the look on her face that my answer was not the correct one. I knew that I had maybe two seconds to come up with a better answer. I said, “I meant, in my dreams.” Once again, I could tell by her face that I gave the wrong answer. I knew if I ever wanted sex again, I had better come up with something fast, so I said, “I meant, I wish.”

You married men know, as I do, that sometimes there is no right answer. It's hard to know what answer a woman is looking for. Wives and significant others would be well advised to tell us men what the correct answer is and not make us guess. We never guess correctly. For example, in the illustration I just gave, my wife could have saved me many sexless nights if instead of asking me she had told me, “You are not sleeping with your secretary.” Then I would have said something profound like, “Yes, dear,” and that would be the end of it. Women should always tell men the correct answer.

Another example is the perennial question, “Does this dress make me look fat?” If you tell the truth, you are in trouble. If you lie, women can sense the fear, and they know you are lying. It’s a lose-lose situation. Wouldn’t it better if women would just say, “You don’t think this dress makes me look fat.” Then we would answer with the intellectually stimulating, “Yes, dear.” Then there is the challenging question, “Do you still love me?” This is not a yes dear situation. Your answer must use the word love, or you are in serious trouble.
​
Wouldn’t it be better if women made it a statement rather than a question?

Fake Ingredients—A Public Service Announcement.
​
I was taking a shower the other day when I ran out of shampoo. I reached for my wife’s shampoo and read the label. The label had a long list of ingredients that weren’t contained in that product. I never heard of any of them. I’m now convinced that they were made up. As a public service, with apologies to Lewis Carroll, I will now list all the ingredients that aren’t contained in this blog.

This blog doesn’t contain any brillig, slithy toves, gyre, gimble, wabe, mimsy, borogoves, momes, raths, outgrabe, jabberwocks, jubjub birds, frumious bandersnatches, vorpals, manxomes, tumtum trees, uffish, tulgey wood, burbles, snicker-snacks (okay, maybe a couple), galumphing backs, calloohs, or callays.

It might contain a small amount of humor, some wit and a drop of sarcasm. You be the judge. Enjoy.

I wrote this short story a couple of years ago. I hope you like it.

Hits-R-Us

“Hello Mr. Smith. Please have a seat.” The huge man behind the desk motioned to a chair.

John sat down. “Actually, my name is…
“Whoa, whoa,” Big Man shouted and held up both hands, palms forward. “No names, please. Here at Hit-R-Us we call all our clients ‘Mr. Smith’. We’ve been in business a long time, because we are careful. No names, please. You can call me, Jack.”

John was taken back. “Sure… Jack. Of course, no names.”

“Now, Mr. Smith, what can we do for you today?”

“Well,” John’s hands shook as he talked. “I’d like you to kill my wife.”

“Whoa, whoa. We don’t like to use that type of language. Just say you want to end your relationship with your wife.”

John cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. I want to end my relationship my wife.”

“Very well,” Jack said as he pulled out several forms from his desk. “We can certainly do that. But first, who referred you to us, Mr. Smith.”

John shifted in his chair. “I friend of mine, Mr. Tony… Smith. You helped him end his relationship with his wife. He said you were the best.”

“Ah, yes, Tony Smith. I remember that contract. I’m glad he referred you to us. As you can imagine, we rely exclusively on referrals. Mr. Tony Smith took our standard package deal. Did Tony talk to you about payment?”

“Yes, he said $10,000 cash.”

Jack smiled. “That’s the standard package. It includes a clean hit; three shots: two to the heart and one to the head. It’s our most humane package—practically painless. It includes a solid alibi.”

“What other options do you offer?” John asked.

“Well, we do offer custom hits,” Jack answered. “For example, we could stage a hit to appear like a burglary gone bad or frame someone like a lover. Or if you wanted to inflict extreme pain like shots in the knees.”

“How about a shot in the groin?” John asked.

“Now, Mr. Smith. We don’t recommend anything personal like that. The cops will make you a suspect right off the bat.”

“So how do you do it?” John asked. “Do you have hit men on staff?”

Jack laughed. “No, nothing that formal. We post contracts on the dark web and hire our hit men like that.”

John thought for a few moments. “Okay, I guess I’ll take the standard package.”

Jack smiled and adjusted the forms in front of him. “Excellent. Let’s get started. I’ll need some information. How soon would you like your relationship with your wife ended?”

John shook his head. “The sooner the better.”
​
THE END

For too long writers have suffered from the stigma of “writer’s block”, a condition where they stop writing and can’t continue for some reason. Even some writers will ridicule their colleagues until they too suffer from writer’s block. Some sufferers report that even their families or partners sometimes ridicule them.  Many suffer in silence because they fear the scorn of others. The total number of writers who suffer may never be known.

The public has called them lazy or stupid. They often offer ill-advised advice like just write or take a break. As a sufferer myself, I can say it isn’t that easy. Trying to write daily or frequently isn’t at all easy. Trying to come up with original material or clever words is a lot of pressure to place on a writer. Many writers already suffer from low self-esteem.

Usually, writer’s block is a temporary ailment and may soon pass. However, in rare cases it may last for months or even years. Some writers have been known to change careers or just give up. Unfortunately, there is no quick cure and no permanent solution. Writer’s block has been known to reoccur. No writer is immune.

If you or someone you know suffers from this malady, please do not criticize, ridicule or laugh at the writer. Studies have shown that most often when non-writers try to help, they make matters worse by placing more pressure on the writer. If you want to help, just be supportive and encouraging. Do not assign a word count or withhold coffee, food or sex. Don’t lock them in their room. Do provide coffee, food, personal space and sex. (Writers need lots of sex.) Do not buy dictionaries or a thesaurus for them; that just add insult to injury.

Writers with writer’s block may need medical help. Encourage them to get a physical to determine if they have completely lost their minds. (This often happens to fiction writers.) Perhaps they are suffering from other ailments like arthritis, carpal tunnel, or brain farts. It’s not unusual to discover writers who get so involved with their writing that they are malnourished, hooked on coffee or no-doze, hallucinating from lack of sleep (This may be hard to detect in fantasy and sci-fi writers) or dehydrated from lack of water. It often helps to inspect their workspace to ensure that their computer(s) and printers work, they have a good chair, and proper lighting.

Pleased help to stop the stigma associated with writer’s block. Thank you.

Jen decided that she would pop the question tonight. Jonah would be home on time for a changed and he had the entire weekend free. Jen also decided to make his favorite dinner--pot roast.

When Jonah arrived, he headed straight for the kitchen. "Oh... What smells so good?" Jen just smiled as she took the roast out of the oven. "oh, oh," Jonah said.

Jen placed the roast on the kitchen table. "What?" she asked.

Jonah smiled coyly, "Well, you usually make pot roast when you need a favor from me. So, what do you want?"

Jen placed her hands on her hips. ""Can't a girl make pot roast for her boyfriend without a interrogation?"

"Sure, usually," Jonah answered. "So, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought we'd have a nice quiet dinner at home for a change. Everything's ready. Sit down, while I get the vegetables and wine."

"Wine too?" Jonah said as he took off his coat and tie. "I'm impressed." He sat down and pulled his wine glass closer. Jen returned with the wine already opened and pour a glass for Jonah and herself. Jonah sipped the wine. "Mmm. My favorite wine too. Are you sure you're not up to something?" He wrapped his arms around Jen's waist. Jen sat down on his lap and kissed him.

Jonan smiled and chuckled. "I know you're up to something. You know whenever you serve me pot roast, you can ask me anything and I'll do it. I'm a sucker for pot roast. Jen kept one arm around his neck and patted his chest with the other. "Okay, then. Here goes. Will you marry me?"

Jonah jerked his head back a little and laughed. "Did not see that coming."

"Well?" 

Jonah kissed her and whispered in her, "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes."
​

I'm trying to finish my crime  novel. I haven't worked on the cover yet nor the ending. I'd like my protagonist, Jen, to marry her boyfriend and ex-partner, Jonah. I'm not sure how. I guess I need to discuss it with Jen. Here's what I have so far:

THE PROPOSAL

Since Doc's death, Jen had pondered about her relationship with Jonah. She wanted to get married and start a family, but she wasn't sure how Jonah felt about it. She didn't want to pressure Jonah or give him an ultimatum, but she didn't want to keep the status quo either. Doc's untimely death from Covid-19 changed everything drastically. She was no longer in a threesome relationship, and was back to a relationship with just Jonah, her first real love.

She decided to discuss it with Molly, her best friend. When Molly arrived for work, one look at Jen told her that Jen needed to talk. "What?" she asked.

Jen smiled. "Get your coffee. We need to talk."

Molly got Prada settled onto her bed and soon returned with a large cup of coffee. "Okay, I'm ready. What do you want to talk about?"

"Jonah," was Jen's quick answer. Molly shook her head and sat down.

"What did he do? Do you want me to kill him?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," Jen answered. Obviously, things have changed since Doc's death. I'm enjoying my relationship with Jonah. I don't think I ever want to go back to a threesome. Jonah has been so attentive since Doc's funeral."

"But you're not happy," Molly suggested.

"I'm not happy. I don't feel complete. I want Jonah and I to get married. I think I'll ask him. I'm tired of waiting."

"Wow. Are you sure about this?" Molly asked. "It's a big step. You're not doing this just because you want to see where your relationship stands? Wait just a minute." Molly move closer to Jen. "Are you pregnant?" 

Jen laughed. "God, no. Nothing like that. I know it's a big step; that's why I wanted to talk to you about it."

"How does Jonah feel about it?"

"He doesn't seem to be in any hurry, but I think he wants it too."

"Are you sure that's how he feels?" Molly asked.

Jen dropped her head into her hands. "No. I mean, I think so... I'm not sure."

"Then maybe you should wait. You might hurt his feelings, or chase him off."

"I can't wait anymore," Jen shot back. "I'm going to ask him... tonight."

"If your mind is made up, pick a meaningful location. Someplace that means something to the two of you. Bring a gift--something for both of you. I don't think a ring is appropriate, but maybe. Something unique. We can brainstorm it."

Jen and Molly spent the rest of the day discussing an appropriate gift, the right location and just hoe to propose to a man.

MORE TO FOLLOW. What do you think? Comments, please.

There seems to be several articles on how Americans waste money. With tongue in cheek, here’s my contribution:

1. 1.  Sending money to someone in Nigeria who claims you inherited a large sum of money. This is a scam, folks. Unless, of course, you’re from Nigeria.
2. 2.  Using your savings to invest in your brother’s or brother-in-law’s stupid ideas. In the case of the brother-in-law, you can’t stand the guy anyway, but you married his sister. Your brother or sister is a different issue. This is a tough one. Never lend money to family -- period. Good luck with this.
3. Enrolling in Trump University. I’m sure you thought this was a god deal. It’s overpriced folks. Go to the local community college. If you believe the “Big Lie” then disregard.
4. Buying swamp land that might be drained. You don’t see this one much anymore. Here’s a hint; if you can’t see it, don’t buy it. Seems as if half the country is under water and the other half is too hot to live in. No one is draining anything.
5. Spending a lot of money to hunt for a buried treasure somewhere. Buy a lotto ticket—it’s cheaper.
6. Spending money to claim a prize someone says you won even though you never entered a contest. Another scam, folks.
7. Spending a lot of money on drugs (prescription drugs, over the counter drugs, under the counter drugs, meth, pot, cocaine, heroin, coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, candy, sugar and liquorish). Enough said. “Everything in moderation, including moderation.”—Oscar Wilde.
8. Buying bottled water. Tap water is just as good, and it has fluoride for your teeth. The bottles are made of plastic which comes from oil. They’re bad for the landfill because they don’t break down. They’re transported by trucks that burn fossil fuel and pollute the air. Just drink tap water and save. You can reuse the old water bottles and fool your snobbish friends. Use a filter if you think your tap is not good enough.
9. Paying too much for sex. Sex should be free. If you must pay for it, you’re wasting money. Now, “good” sex is something else. That’s going to cost you.
10. Spending too much on pets. Pets should be free. Don’t purchase a pet, adopt them. Don’t feed them expensive pet food, make your own from organic foods—it’s better for them. If you have a dog or cat, yes, it’s expensive. If pets own you, (you know who you are), that’s different. Forget dogs or cats; cockroaches make great pets and they don’t eat much. They never bark.

 
I hope this helps everyone to cut expenses.