I never was much of a letter writer. I still am not. Why? Because, honestly, what goes on day to day is pretty boring. I often think of myself a lot like Walter Mitty in the original Thurber story, (not the Stiller movie). Instead of pocketa-pocketa going on in my head, there’s characters and scenes playing out. They talk, and jockey for position.
Bad guys explain why it makes perfect sense to do dastardly deeds. At some point I just have to agree. Otherwise I shall never get the laundry done, get dressed, and get to yoga.
Yesterday, while cleaning the greasy fan over the stove with a Mr. Clean eraser, I had to argue with the heroine about following the hero into battle. Honestly? I finally had to have her husband lock her in the dungeon.
Did that work? No. Because then the evil highlander, the one with schizophrenia, decides to use her and her son to discourage our hero from fighting to get his inheritance back.
I have to go to my day job now, and put them all mentally away, like the dolls I played with as a kid. But when I stop for a moment, they’re not real polite about waiting. What about the castle? What about love? What about justice? Will the head injury leave permanent damage?