2015, 2018 Mirror Image Edutainment, Alan John Mayer
Dear writing partner, a letter to one of my Life Writing Class Partners,
Thank you for your input. I forwarded your letter to the house detective in the Communications Office at the palace. I think he will be interested in hearing what the princess has been up to. I feel certain he will look into this matter, and make a note in the official file. Her Majesty, the crown, thanks you for being an alert citizen of Abundance.
Your suggestion is a good thought, one you will read in the final draft, once the house detective gets back with me. Actually, sparked by your mail, you just brought him to life. Until this moment, he did not exist.
I say he, because, for this story, a female detective is not right. Unless of course, you convince me he should be a she, or maybe a he who becomes a she, or a she who becomes a he, or a shehe, they I have now learned since this 2018 update — I don’t know, but I do know this: You have sparked my imagination.
It can be overwhelming when so many ideas flow across the table at once. An airplane flies overhead. Workers sand the rails outside the wall to wall floor to ceiling window, which only I seem to hear. “What’s that?” Life Writing lead Bea Mitz interjects “I didn’t hear you”.
I state an objection.
Jeff raises his voice to make a point, and ends up yelling.
I shut up, look at Annette, reaching into her satchel. She tosses a bag of dog treats across the table for Pokey, and hits me in the eye. “I’m sorry” she says, turning to writing member Claudine “Which was the preferred language spoken in the home of your ancestors, Claudine? Was it Russian, German, English, or Hebrew?” She sets her satchel aside.
Claudine gave Annette a gazing look. What (the hell difference does that make? I read it on her face, her silence, wishing we could get back to the topic at hand, our writing. Leonid watches quietly, while building his English vocabulary.
Disappointed, Annette reaches into her satchel, alerting Pokey, who moofs, to which I feel compelled to respond “No barking”. He jumps off the chair, scratching my ankle in the process. I cry out “Ouch!”
Everybody turns to me “What’s his problem?”
There are too many ideas, all flowing at one time, to take them all in. The brain goes on overload, and shuts down. This is P.T.S.D. I remember you making the suggestion, interjected between comments from others. I thought of the scene in which Princilla steals the Queen’s necklace.
I need something different. Repeating the stealing develops character, even more reason to start the stealing consciousness at an early age. Grab a child at a young age, and you control her mind. You just added sense to my story, as well as a palace detective. Would might you like to name him, — in the name of the Queen? I am thinking here of Jeff, who made a suggestion then blew up.
I watch, as you read. When you pause, or hesitate, I look up, and see you put pen to paper. When my copies come back to me, I know who wrote what. Every comment is valid.
I extract gems, like when Queen Pristine and king consort Godwyn were gathered around the coffee table, Bea interjected “Marble coffee table, why not? Doesn’t cost anything.”
Anyway, I cut the scene in half, sent Competencia to her room, renamed her Cocoa, and cut the squirrels in the garden from her view.
I appreciate the comeradery this class brings to my life. It helps me to listen better, think more openly, and write better. Feedback is the best fertilizer, and stinky writing can only smell better when you lay it on. The person who tells me my story sucks may be my best critic.
Thank you for your ideas. I am going to steal them and call them my own. In return, the palace detective requests you please give him a barmitzvah.
Best wishes for a good week.
Alan John Mayer
There is One life.
This life is God.
This life is perfect.
This life is my life now.
I claim this perfection, in my mind
as it is in Heaven.
I give thanks.
I release my thoughts,
knowing they come back to me multiplied.