Hijacked
It happens, and it's not a pretty scene when it does happen. I'm
sitting in front of my computer, happily typing away, moving along with my whodunit's narrative, when my protagonist Daisy O'Donnell balks.
It's not that she says anything at the moment -- it's
kind of a silent hijacking of ME... Daisy's creator and author. "Can you believe this?" I'm supposed to lead and she follows, but not for my amateur sleuth. She has no intention of being a cranky Miss Marple at the ripe old age of thirty-
seven. She refuses to even think about the inevitability of being dumped on a shelf in two years.
Recently, as I was writing, "Death Comes Too Often," Daisy bolted from the monitor screen and forcibly dragged me with her. I hadn't the foggiest notion of where she was going, which was more than worrisome at my time of life.
In chapter five, Daisy flatly refused to passively wait for interim Police Chief
jack Staples after the fatal fall of an art dealer from Bolton. Jack had just been approached by Daisy, his potbelly hanging over the top his belt and his
face florid in the summer heat.
Daisy yawned. Then uttered, "Boring!" Stomping off and leaving Jack confused... along with me. There I was fingers poised, ready to have him say, "What'd you see? "How'd it happen?"
Instead, Staples looks round, scratching his toupee, in a bewildered state because his key witness and future partner in solving the murder, has taken off for heaven's sake. He's not happy with me. He's not a happy bunny... no siree! "You outlined this story!" He said. "What's going on? Where did Daisy go? What am I going to do now? How am I going to solve this crime?" I couldn't answer his barrage of questions.
I knew that my protagonist could be touchy although Daisy had started out mild mannered, quiet, the kind of sleuth who has good deductive powers and a compassionate nature. Perfect for solving small town murders and not forgetting, sorting the boys from the men. You
know... the sort of girl you could take home to meet mum.
I sat back in my leather desk chair at home, alarmed at what was happening.
I was in a state of shock for almost a minute, I couldn't believe it. It was a big surprise to find....
Daisy sitting on the corner of my
mind, kind of like my paperweight "Snowy" sitting on a stack of papers on my desk we share. "Look here!" Daisy said. "I'm thirty-seven not seventy-seven. I don't want to match wits with a grumpy, fat Police Chief!" I stalled. I was flabbergasted to say the least. "Well... in a way, you're like me... you know. You're more of an observer of life, rather than an active participant. That's how you figure who did what... and found the murderer." She nods. "That's good. I like that. But I want some fun in my life. I'm over George now, leaving me after 23 years of homely bliss. I found out he hooked up with some dumb blonde younger than me and then... had the nerve to die of a heart attack. What a sorry excuse of a story." Mind you, I said it in a jolly way.
Hmm. I hadn't planned on any romance in this book. Maybe, later on....
Nope, time's drifting by, I need to get this written and off to the Publisher. Now this Jack Staples clever he may be. "THINK!" A slight pause from the author. "I got it!" Jumping with glee. "I see him as tall, kind of angular; haunted about his own failed marriage. Maybe give him a craggy face, and bedroom eyes. Yeah... why not, definitely nice eyes with a twinkle." Said Daisy. "Not bad," said I with a slight smirk on my tiresome face.
I'll consider Daisy's suggestions. It means tossing out my outline, rewriting some chapters. And of course, the clues and the red herrings and the murderer's identity could stay the same. I gave one last protest. "Romance isn't my genre, you know!"
Daisy hops off my mind and back onto the screen. She turns and smiles in a cheeky sort of way.
I notice that her T-shirt is tighter, looking sexier, and she's developeed a bit more fuller hip.
Daisy doesn't wait for Jack Staples to move -- now looking tall and angular, to approach her again. Instead, she strides toward him, pausing long enough, to give me a throwaway line. "Give it a try, buster! Let your imagination fly!" I just gawked.
Daisy got the last word in.
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