(I don’t mean what you think I might mean, despite being a romantic erotic (as much as someone raised by nuns can get erotic) novelist. It’s a box box. A box in which you put things. Not those things. Things that you put in a box. Non-metaphorically. So I hope this is all clear.)
But first I shall keep you in suspense, I laughed evilly, although I am not actually evil, just being a Method author who is writing an epic fantasy grim dark (and romantic, of course, and historical) novel, and answer a fan question.
Dear X,
“isn’t all this a bit silly?” is a question, because it has a question mark, but I know this isn’t what you actually wanted to ask, so I will answer the question that I know you actually wanted to ask.
No. I can’t simply “stop doing the incognito” (which you have mis-spelled, or rather mis-spaced, look in to the dictionary) “thing.” The problem with having been wanted both by Colombian drug Maffia and the Police is that even though it was a while ago and I so far haven’t been found, is that I can’t go to the Colombian drug Maffia and/or the Police, to innocently ask “pray tell, good man, do you still search with the intent to murder or imprison for My Real Name?” And they also don’t have a handy list publicly available of people they are searching for with the intent to murder or imprison, neither the Maffia nor the Police, which is not the only thing they share, but I digress into politics and that actually would be the answer to the question you literally stated.
So, I may be forced to spend the rest of my life in cognito, which makes my books ineligible for the Bookers and Politzers Awards both, because I would have to tell them who I am, and the whole point of those Awards is that you get publicity by winning them. But there are Awards where you don’t have to reveal yourself publicly, and I will be getting them soon.
Love,
Karen xoxo
(Dear Readers, this is not the end! Now I will tell you about Myrna’s box. The one you put things in, not the one you think about, you dirty swines. Wink!)
So, as you know from the previous post on my blog, and if you don’t, read it and then you will, my friend Myrna’s we-thought-soon-to-be-ex husband Harry, together with his bald head and the bump, showed up to my door. He then dropped on one knee, the other one remaining upright but at an angle – maybe I should draw an illustration for this, but it’s a bit like a chair with an extra calf on the back – and handed Myrna a small box.
We (Myrna and I, who was there) were stupefied by this event, especially since Harry said nothing, and couldn’t have been proposing due to still, although we thought not for long, being married to Myrna at that point. So, it took Myrna a bit to stop being stupefied and accept the box, although I worried it had tarantulas in it, and then they could bite my beloved Lassie (who is my dog, read About the Author where I explain more) and I wouldn’t stand for that. Or kneel. So, Myrna opened the box with the same feelings painted on her face as the ones painted in my heart, but hers had more lipstick, and inside found…
Playing cards.
With disbelief, I watched her drop on Harry’s neck (literally drop, because it was still on his knees) while still holding the box, and sob into his shoulder, saying words such as “my love” which I hoped against hope meant the cards, although that would be a very weird pairing. Especially if you’ve seen what Myrna wears. But it turned out that her grandmother liked to play patience games of solitaire, which she did in solitude, as such is the point of solitaire, but little Myrna observed her lovingly from behind a corner where her grandma’s walking stick couldn’t reach her lower lower back. And Myrna memorised the cards, both their fronts and their backs, in great detail. The fronts came useful later during our games of rummy bridge, but the backs were just etched in her memory. She must have etched them so successfully into Harry, which must have been almost as painful as living with someone in possession of Simple Red records, that he had found them at a card company which I can’t spell incorrectly not to get sued, because I frankly don’t look at playing cards and think “I must memorise the name of the company that makes them.” They had a vintage section (he asked if they had Simple Red cards and they laughed him out, but he came back and asked if they had Myrna’s grandma’s cards and then they suddenly got very serious, because apparently those people love playing cards as much as Harry loves his Simple Red collection) and he found them. Although they looked new, not vintage, they looked like the ones little Myrna memorised. Not that I really believe at the age of eighteen her memory was all that good before today’s year of 2023 in the 2020s of the 21st Century. (I am not saying this judgementally. I’ve seen Myrna searching for her keys in my liquor cabinet. You won’t convince me she has good memory.)
But back to Harry’s Simple Red collection, the golden records of which Myrna has taken off the walls, then smashed them with Harry’s golf clubs. She was doing it in haste, because she never knew when Harry would return, but had an inkling that he would hit something much more valuable with his golf clubs at this sight. It turned out she 1) isn’t as strong as she thought (I could have told ther if she asked, but she didn’t) and 2) she only broke the first layer of the bulletproof glass and the other two remained unscathed. So, Harry said, he took some of their savings, had their frames (of the records, not of the savings) replaced, and if she were willing to forgive him, he was willing to forgive (at this point I glared at him rather frostily) oh, he added, I misspelled that, to beg for her love back. Which, since Myrna continued to sob onto his arm on the side where his bald head has the bump, was clearly already returned.
For playing cards!
Truly, I thought, Myrna values her love lightly. How much can even vintage new playing cards cost? I, myself, wouldn’t settle for less than between one and three million dollars. But then I thought, imagine that someone could bring my previous baby (doggie) back to life, and not from a “vintage” section, but really, and I would love this person forever, even if it was Sister Bernadette, who has been dead for much longer than my sweet baby and in her state of discomposition that would probably look and smell worse than Harry. (Harry actually uses a Simple Red-scented ginger cologne, so the competition is sort of in a balance, like in chess, which I don’t play, so I forgot the word, but you know what I mean.) I would still love her forever and only hope that Lassie and – oh, this is so embarrassing, but since I live in cognito, I also made up a different name for my sweet, dead baby (who was a dog, just clarifying this) and I can’t tell you the real one for obvious reasons, especially not you, Vasoline – get along. I would have twins, except one would be completely different from the other and also one would be technically a zombie, but pretty and sweet and cuddly and then suddenly I also shed a tear upon my face.
I know that since his extensive surgery my husband Gunther has been entertaining four maidens (slags) in our town, if not more. I am greatly relieved, because when he still used to “entertain” me, that collided with my reading. You simply can’t read with Gunther entertaining you. Not just because it’s very distracting, but also he gets really offended when I tell him to move his head to the side, because I can’t even see the book at all. And offended Gunther is both a good Gunther, because when he doesn’t speak with me I can focus on writing, and not quite, because he turns up the telly and let’s say what Gunther enjoys watching is not what I enjoy listening to. (Except the bits at the end when they take off their tops and do a lot of sweaty hugs, but 1) I can’t hear that, and 2) isn’t it forbidden now? So what’s the point of the whole game?) So, I feel great relief and would thank those four if I could find them. But in case he suddenly rediscovered my existence beyond a phantom delivering Prongles and Aldi Strong beer to his armchair in front of TV, would he bring my baby back to life? Would he remember what cards my grandma played? (I never had a grandma, but you know what I mean.) He would probably offer to share his Aldi Strong beer with me, reluctantly, then try to entertain me. It would be like my neighbour Vasoline inviting me for a cocktail in her jacuzzi. I would appreciate the gesture, sort of, but also say I have a sudden appointment with my dentist, who works very late, especially at the weekends, or that – if it was Gunther – I have recently discovered a… well, I won’t have to think about what, because it will never happen.
As Harry and Myrna exchanged sloppy kisses of the nature younger readers shouldn’t even read about, because this is how “13 and Preggo” (a television show) happens, I gently suggested with a few loving kicks that I would prefer them to do it somewhere that wasn’t in my hallway. With the door open. And Vasoline not even pretending not to stare and cackle with her arms crossed on her bosoms. So, Harry, Myrna, his bump, and her cards left sloppily, I shut my door a bit louder than necessary for the benefit of Vasoline, and thought a thankful thought to my atheist god (he’s named Bob) for the thought that I will now sleep all night, uninterrupted by Myrna’s snoring.
That was before I discovered that I got used to her snoring so much I couldn’t sleep without it.
But before that, I had a rather disastrous vegan dinner with my designer Paolo and his partner Andreas, who is vegan, about which I will tell you some other time.
Love, light, and other things that start with L,
Karen xoxo