Friday, July 1, 2011

"But, but, Officer, I'm a writer ... ." or My Life Is A Joke

Working furiously at my computer, I was well into the last third of my police Det. Matt Stockley's newest mystery. I'd been at it for three hours and I was in the zone. That mad rush to get to the end. Characters whispering in my ear. No stopping me now.

And the phone rang. I didn't answer.  It rang again when whoever it was called back.

I picked up the phone. "I can't talk right now. He's got a gun. I have to find out what he's going to do with it." I hung up and went back to writing down the whispers in my ear.

Five minutes later, I heard banging on my front door.  Throwing my hands up, I went to answer the door. I opened it to two policeman on the front porch.

"Is there a problem here?" one of the officers asked, looking past me into the living room.

"Uh, um, no," I stammered. "What's wrong?"

"We got a called from a woman who said she was your mother and you were being held captive by an armed man," the office rested his hand on his gun.

Oh, no, it was my mother on the phone. I shook my head. "Come in and I'll explain everything, officers."

Nobody understands a writer's world.

© 2011 Fiona L. Woods

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