A Surprise Guest

Writing is a solitary business, I've been told. Apparently, no one told the guest who barged into my lonely writer's garret and started giving orders...

Guest: Oh, for crying out loud, just write something! Put it on the page and do not -- I repeat, DO NOT -- hit that delete key again.

Me: What if I misspell something?

Guest: Don't be a smart ass. That's not what I meant and you know it.

Me: OK, fine. I'm writing. See?

Guest: Yes. Yes, I do. Five whole lines so far. Wow.

Me: Hey, it's a start. 

Guest: That it is. Now that we have a beginning, let's try for a middle and an end, shall we?

Me: What's with the 'we', whoever you are? You got a mouse in your pocket? I'm the one doing all the typing here.

Guest: Point taken. And if there were a mouse, it would technically be in your pocket, since I exist only as a voice in your head.

Me: Wait, do we have to keep that in? Kinda makes me sound a little schizophrenic.

Guest: No erasing! And if the shoe fits...

Me: Hey!

Guest: OK, let's review. Before I started barking at you, you wrote and rejected no less than ten different openings for this blog, some of which you deleted after typing less than one complete sentence. It wasn't until I insisted that you stop with the premature editing that we got anywhere at all.

Me: Point taken. Fine, I'll take all the help I can get, even if it means I'm certifiable. 

Guest: That's my girl.

Me: You know, you're voice is starting to sound familiar.

Guest: I should hope so. I haven't been gone that long, angel.

Me: Wait... is that you... Dad?

Dad: Hi, princess.

Me: Oh, my... 

Dad: So, now that that's out of the way --

Me: Hold on a sec, things just got a little blurry...

Dad: Now, now, none of that. We've still got work to do. 

Me: Not any more. Look, we filled up the page. Blog #1 is done. Thanks for having my back, Dad. I couldn't have done it without you.

Dad: Don't thank me yet. You know those opinions you mentioned in the blog description? Well, here's one of mine you might not like. Ever since you were a little girl, you've been in love with words and stories. You are a writer, Wendie, and it's time you started acting like one again. 

Me: It was so much easier before. My life is so complicated now.

Dad: Bullshit.

Me: Dad! 

Dad: What? Stop cringing. And that keyboard wouldn't stop a lightning bolt if the Big Guy was gonna throw one, so put it down. Besides, profanity isn't a problem up there, but that whole taking His name in vain thing? That one He's serious about.

Me: O...K... Hold it, I'm still back on you knowing what was in the blog description... You read that?

Dad: Of course, especially since you mentioned me in it. I'm glad some of what I said stuck with you.

Me: Believe me, Dad, it all stuck.

Dad: So then you remember me telling you that there are books inside of you?

Me: Yes, it's one of my most treasured memories.

Dad: Well, I wasn't just whistling 'Dixie', darlin', so quit with the 'my life is so complicated' whining and get crackin'! I have eternity to see you published, but you don't. And if this blog thing is supposed to help, then count me in.

Me: Well, I am hoping it will help me turn on the faucet again, get the ideas flowing. Maybe even instill      the necessary self-discipline to keep me writing every day whether I feel like it or not.

Dad: That's the spirit.

Dad and Me: (in unison) No pun intended.

Dad: Right. And if you get off track again, that's where I come in.

Me: Sounds like a plan.

Dad: Well, call me if you need me...

Me: You leaving?

Dad: Yeah, it's poker night and I don't want to miss out on giving MacArthur and Patton their weekly ass-kicking. Great at running wars, but they suck at playing cards.

Me: Give 'em hell...uh...I mean...

Dad: Count on it, honey. Give your mom and the grandkids a kiss for me.

Me: Sure thing, Dad. And thanks again, for everything.