Most of my fiction-writing brain cells are elsewhere on this Fiction Friday, so you will just have to live with another story drawn from life, O readers. This one is from my own point of view, or rather the point of view of the person I hope someday to be, and is a musing on certain aspects of the culture I perceive around me every day.
Writing on my current projects is somewhat sporadic, but I hope to be sending fanfic update notices very soon. As for originals, your guess is as good as mine. I'm sure that I ought to be a "pure" writer, practicing my craft for the love of it, but I'm human enough to want some reward for my hard work, and that's been pretty lacking lately.
Is that too whiny and needy, O readers? Am I driving you away by being, well, human? By asking for things, am I dooming myself to never receive them? Who knows. Please enjoy today's Fiction Friday offering, as much as possible, and I hope to delight you far more very soon indeed.
The gates of the estate opened to admit the small blue car and closed immediately afterwards, the driver guiding her vehicle forward without glancing either left or right at the dozen reporters and bloggers calling out questions to her. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, and a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap perched atop a short, wavy crop of brown hair. Her hands lay steadily on the steering wheel, her fingernails short and unmanicured.
"Well, damn." One of the bloggers scowled as he turned away. "Same old, same old."
"Did you expect anything else?" his friend asked, shaking her head. "She doesn't stop and answer questions. She barely even notices we exist. And if you try anything more active than yelling at her, like climbing on the car or trying to sneak on the estate, she'll slap you on the blacklist, you and any blog or zine you're affiliated with."
"Wonder what she does in there, that she wants so much privacy for?" The blogger craned his neck, trying to see the far-distant cluster of houses behind the screening clumps of trees.
"Who the hell knows?" The friend shrugged. "Maybe she's cooking drugs, or having orgies with the other crazies she keeps around. We're never going to know, so how about we head into town and have a drink?"
"Sounds like a plan."
"Orgy!" crowed the young woman about whom the fuss had been made at the gate, leaning back on the couch and wiggling her bare toes in the air.
"Orgy indeed," agreed her blonder companion, giggling as the large black canine sprawled across the rug with her swiped his tongue along the sole of her foot. "Three or more people in the same room with no socks on!"
"Then we don't quite count," said the third person in the room, who was balancing a balled-up sock on the point of one big toe. "Mine are still a little bit on—hey!" She yipped in surprise as a sleek black feline form hurdled her foot, snatched the sock, and pelted out of the room with it. "What was that?"
"Oh, I'm sorry." Anne B. Walsh, author of eight novels which had often been described as "addictive", with three more in progress on her computer, spun herself around on the couch and grinned at her sister upside down. "Did I forget to mention I sprinkled all your socks with catnip this morning?"
The sister growled, then leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "I wonder what they think about us?" she asked, waving a hand in the direction of the gate. "The ones who always try to yell questions at us when we're coming in or going out."
"Who knows." The lounger on the rug shrugged one shoulder, her other hand scratching the dog against whom she leaned. "Who cares. They only know what we let them know, and they're never going to guess about the rest of it."
"Anonymously famous." Anne grinned. "I could even write a story about it."