It's March Madness time here in the Davis household. Although, truth be told, a sense of madness lasts a shade longer around here. Why would I say that, you ask? Well, I have always been a magnet for the absurd. Those of you who know me well are smiling and nodding. Awake or asleep, strange things just seem to happen to me.
Take last night, for instance. I dreamt I'd taken my manuscript into the office of a publisher. In reality, one's agent would email the manuscript to a specific editor at a publishing house. I sat there nervously twisting the handles of a purple purse (which I don't have) and watched him read my two-page synopsis--a summary of the book's plot. The editor, who looked and sounded suspiciously like Simon of American Idol threw down the synopsis and said, "I just bought this very story from the well-known author, Janet Evanovich!" He scooted his office chair around his desk until he sat knees to knees across from me. Then he placed his hands on my cheeks and looked into my eyes, whispering, "You can write another book. A better book."
My eyes shot to my manuscript, thinking of all the hours I'd devoted to it. "You just want me to throw away A Man for Annalee?"
"I can't buy two of the same story, now can I? Write that other book."
"Which book?" I have outlines plotted for four novels, plus two partially written, not to mention the two finished manuscripts collecting dust in my drawer.
"The story you think about every year during March Madness. Didn't you mentally plot-out scenes between the coach and the kid with Downes Syndrome during the Tennessee-West Virginia game yesterday? Write that book. Let Janet have the Annalee story." Then the Simon look-a-like kissed me on the nose. I think I may have moaned Simon's name in my sleep and am ashamedly relieved that Calvin sleeps without his hearing-aides.
I left the editor's office grumbling an imaginary rant to Janet Evanovich. "Since when have you written historical romance? Why didn't you stay in Trenton with Stephanie and Morelli and Ranger? Why did you have to go to Wyoming in 1871 and steal my story?" Ms. Evanovich has written nearly twenty rib-splitting novels about a bungling female bounty hunter in Trenton, New Jersey. Truly she wouldn't need to steal from my limited imagination--even in my demented dreams. Yup, March Madness is not only alive and well; here at our house, the madness resides year 'round.
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