The thunder is rolling outside, and my mind is rolling inside. This morning I got up at my usual time, around 5:30 a.m., and turned on the computer. Instead of writing my blog, I finally did what I've been planning in my mind for the last few months and thinking about doing for many years now. I started my novel.
It's interesting to note that the first person I allowed to read the first half chapter, what I accomplished this morning, was John. John doesn't read fiction. He immediately told me that "You can't do that." He wanted all his questions answered in the first few paragraphs. Who is she, where did she come from, what's she doing there, how'd she get there, why is she there? What's she going to do? I explained to him that if I told him all of that in the first few paragraphs, he'd have no need to read the book.
Of course, now that I think about it, that would be fine with John. He doesn't read fiction. After all, according to John, fiction is just a bunch of lies anyway. "That's why it's called fiction. Why don't I write something that's true?"
When I asked him why, if fiction is all a bunch of lies, and I'm just wasting my time reading it, let alone writing it, why is it that I can always beat him at Jeopardy when we watch the show together? He must have had something important to do outside, because the next thing I knew, the door quietly closed behind him. I wonder if he realized that he never answered my question.