I am a big, fat lying liar. It’s true. Yesterday I said I was going to fake it through the fear and write anyway. Well, I didn’t. I panicked and went shopping. For the kids. Mostly.
As I passed through Barnes and Noble to get to my car, I picked up a random book, paged through it, and I started to hear a voice in my head. It wasn’t that voice you hear when you’re reading somebody’s book. I knew because the voice wasn’t reading anything on the page in front of me. It was telling me all this stuff about her grandmother and what a shrew that old lady was and that only people from the Caribbean could ever understand a grandmother like that. And that’s when I realized that it was the character from my story, who was trying to tell me something about her life.
I stood there, shocked. She was saying some pretty awful, but hysterical things. I thought: this girl is disturbed, but damn funny. So I bolted from the store to get home and write (after a brief stop at the check-out to buy something I saw out of the corner of my eye.)
Of course by the time I got home and put down all the shopping bags, she had stopped talking, but I wrote down the things I had already heard. And now that I’ve heard her and she has plenty to say, I only have to listen and write it down.
So, I’d like to apologize for lying to you yesterday. I’d like to, but I won’t. Because I’m totally not sorry.
I guess sometimes fleeing is just as good a solution as fighting through the fear.