Fairy tale in the third person

When she was in love, she wrote poems.

Love poems.

Erotic love poems.

She was not a poet.

When her heart was broken, she wrote roman a clef’s. Only they were short stories.

Short stories a clef.

Violent.

There.

In your face.

Disturbing in a funny way. Funny in a disturbing way. Take your pick.

Sigh.

They made her feel better.

Well, they kept her from throwing herself under a train.

When she was in school, she wrote essays. Bland, perfunctory, occasionally engaging, sufficient.

When she was at work, she wrote policies. And lesson plans. And PowerPoint presentations. And quizzes. And more policies. And performance self-appraisals. Only she hasn’t written those yet.

Even though they are due tomorrow.

Bad girl.

When she has bountiful free time…

Who are we kidding?

She never has bountiful free time.

When she can steal a moment from when she should be doing something else for someone else, she writes postings to her blog.

Like now.

Since she was raised Catholic and guilt is her middle name, her blog postings are few and far between.

Or at least they are not as regular as they would be, should be, could be.

When she is alone with her thoughts, she writes poems and short stories and novels and short stories and plays and songs and short stories and stand-up comedy routines and dialogues and monologues and short stories and essays and letters to the editor and reviews and memoirs and screenplays and “Secret Life of Walter Mitty”-esque scenarios and musings and prayers and political speeches and emotional diatribes and short stories and short stories.

And short stories.

The end.