GQ seemed genuinely interested in pursuing an Internet friendship. When I asked myself, “What do I have to lose?” The answer was simple.
With a handle like GossipQueen, I assumed that GQ was a female, but maybe he was something else. Well, hey, I’m a mystery writer. I should be able to figure out which is which with my new best friend; not that it really mattered.
I found the answer to my question of how a person could spend so much time on the ‘Net. Having an anonymous cyber-friend was intoxicating and I eagerly logged on every day after work to chat about the highs and lows of writing a good story. It was good to have someone who understood — someone who shared my goals and groans.
GQ was always there for me. One day she/he offered a fun solution to my writer’s block. I think that was when I decided to definitely think of GQ as her. She was sympathetic and had a creative approach to problem solving without trying to fix mine for me.
She wrote: “My old high school English Lit teacher once had our class try an exercise to help us get started on a writing assignment. None of us had any interest in writing, but the results were surprising. Got me hooked. Want to try a plot machine?”
“Plot machine? Do I have to buy it?”
“ ;-) No, you can’t buy it. You make one up. We each make lists for the different elements of a story. Like Type of Story, Plot, Cast of Characters. Here’s what you do: Make a list for each item and number them, like Drama, Comedy, and so on. Then make three lists of characters and number each. Next make a list of times, like past, present and future if you don’t care to be more specific, but put them in random order so I can’t guess which it is when I choose a number in that category.”
“Huh????? I don’t get it.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m not explaining very well, am I? It was a few years ago and I’m trying to tell you as it comes back to me, which is all jumbled. Why don’t I give you an example? I’m putting one together as we speak. Hold on a minute.”
I’m willing to try something new. :o) Notice the artist in me had to get creative. My nose is not skinny. Well, neither is the rest of me, but we won’t get into it. That part’s always subject to change.
GQ’s typed message popped onto my screen, “You just use it to get started on a story, okay? The only rule is to have fun! Try to use all the categories listed, but it’s not set in concrete so it’s okay if you decide to leave something out. I’ll give you a list to choose from. Genre: Pick a random number from one to six, and write the number down.
“I have a long List of Characters so pick two or three numbers from it if you like. One can be the protagonist, one might be the villain and the third could be the sidekick to one or the other, whatever you choose. Add more characters if you need to, or just use one of them. This is only a suggestion! It’s your story. Do it any way you want."
I jotted numbers on a pad, confused, but engaged.
"The next category we’ll call Topic. Pick a number from one to six. And finally, pick a number from one to five for the Time Frame (that’s all I could think of in a hurry). Oh yes, add one to six for Location. Give me your numbers and I’ll tell you the story assignment that you’ve randomly selected.”
As skeptical as I was, it was just too intriguing to ignore. I had to do it. I typed in some random numbers and held my breath.
GQ wrote back, “You’re gonna have so much fun with your story, MI! Wish you had a list for me so I could write one, too! Here goes:
“You’re writing a satire about an executive, a photographer and a salesman. The story is about — Friday the Thirteenth! Ha! That should be interesting. Your story takes place in the present, in a city, and I’ve added the complication of an embarrassing moment to make you work harder. Now, you don’t have to stick rigidly to the format. It just guides you into a story, so get creative and write fast.
“Don’t think about it, just write. Good luck. See ya’ tomorrow! ;-)”
She signed off and I sat staring at the screen, thinking about the crazy assignment I’d chosen for myself. I printed the assignment and opened a new Word file.
A niggle started in my brain, then a kind of tickly, electrical current jolted upward from my stomach. My breath quickened and grew shallow; vision narrowed and my brain transformed all sounds into background babble. My hands rose to the keyboard, and began typing. And I chuckled. And I typed.
I should come up for air once in awhile when I’m under the control of my muse, but I just can’t seem to leave it alone until it’s finished. To heck with the headache, backache and floating kidneys; I live for the excitement of telling a story.
I finally fell into bed at 3:56 a.m., but was still awake when the alarm rang at six.
I bolted from my rumpled bed and turned on the computer. While it warmed up, I started a pot of coffee.
I fiddled with the file until I found a way to download the story into an email, then with fingers crossed, sent it to GQ. Hopefully she’d have time to read it before I came home from work that evening. I could hardly wait to talk about it. The story was so much fun that I sat down and created my own plot machine for GQ in case she was serious about writing a story.
While I was deep inside my mind creating interesting characters, I heard splashing and hissing noises in the other room. I raced out to the kitchen expecting to find a broken pot, but it seemed that someone hadn’t emptied the old coffee and rinsed the carafe before brewing a full measure. My countertop was awash in overflowing coffee — again.
CHAPTER FOUR
At the end of the day, Twitchell and I tried to exit the same door at the same time, creating a human logjam. His elbow jab in my ribs broke us loose and he raced to his car ahead of me.
I didn’t get mad. I left him in the parking lot blinded by a thick cloud of blue exhaust and was soon speeding home by way of the Burger Roundup. That was only because their line was shorter than my first choice, Budget Burgers, and I was in a hurry. I’d finished the fries by the time I pulled in my driveway and was peeling paper from the straw clenched in my teeth as I unlocked the front door.
My computer was set to receive mail while I was away. I had mail.
"Wow, MI.” GQ wrote, “I knew you could write, but I’m impressed. What a fun tale! Imagine a whole story about a broken shoelace! I’ll meet you online at six.”
She logged off with her usual smiley face symbol.
I logged on first, but didn’t have to wait long.
She skipped the howdies and wrote, “Good job!”
“Thanks GQ. That was so much fun I can’t wait to try another one. Made a plot machine for you if you’d like.”
“Do I? This exercise has my creative juices flowing. Gimme. I’ll take number two from column A. Give me one, five and eight from Cast of Characters. And how about six for topic, one for time, three for location and five for dessert?”
“Now I’m embarrassed! I put some silly items on the lists just for fun and you picked every one of them!”
That ought to teach me to give in to my juvenile impulses. Ha! Maybe not.
“Are you ready for this? Your story is a romance. Your characters are a truck driver, a short order waitress, and a two-headed puppy. Your topic is a blizzard, 2,000 years in the past, at the North Pole! And the complication is an interfering boss. Do you want to choose again?”
“You kidding? I accept your challenge. A two-headed puppy! Man, you are eviiiiil! I love it! Give me a little time. Yakatchalater. Bye. ;-)”
Briefly puzzled by that strange word, I finally understood that