My friend and critique partner, Brittany inspired me with her to do list. (Check out her to-do list at mylifeherdingcats.blogspot.com)
Last night as Natalie and I sat waiting for Tesoro’s production of Me and My Girl (awesome, by the way—Tesorians are an amazingly gifted, talented bunch and I’m forever grateful that my kids are able to attend such a great school) I made a to-do list very different from Brittany’s. It looked like this:
Lunch with Don Marx
“Who’s Don Marx?” Natalie asked, looking at my list.
“He owns a string of car dealerships.”
This answer didn’t sit well with Natalie. “Is he a writer friend?” She’s used to my string of writer friends. I come home with stories from my writer’s group and talk about the funny things they post on-line. I bring home their books and my children will ask, “Why do we have this book?” and I’ll answer, “My friend wrote it.” Occasionally, they’ll find a book at Barnes and Noble and bring it to me and ask, “Isn’t this your friend?” I have to be careful—once I bought one of my friend’s books and had to throw it away before any of my children came home. (Don’t tell and don’t try to guess who’s book went in the recycle bin.)
“Sort of, he’s a character in my book,” I told her.
Natalie laughed at my answer, clearly relieved I wasn’t having lunch with some man other than her dad.
And I thought about that—is lunch with the fictional Don Marx so different than having lunch with some other man? I’m not in love with Don Marx—I’m not supposed to be—he’s old and money driven—but sometimes I do fall in love with the characters in my books. Right now, I’m writing about Drake—in fact, I’m planning his birthday party. He’s terribly flawed, which makes me love him all the more. If Natalie had asked me about Drake—would I have gotten a dreamy look in my eye?
Is this wrong? Am I the only one?