AHHHHH!
Harriet, my 82-year-old neighbor…
Is harassing me!
Yes, that wisp of a woman with thin bluish hair…
Just won’t leave me alone.
“When are you going to let me read your manuscript?”
She had asked back in the summer.
Well, I thought she was just being polite.
Then I ran into her in the fall on my way to the dumpster.
“When are you going to let me read your manuscript?”
Again, I thought she was just being polite.
(why did I have to brag that I wrote a novel?)
And then, just yesterday, on the floor in my foyer…
A white envelope…
Had been slipped through the mail slot in the door.
There was no return address, not even my address…
Just my name.
Hmm?
I opened it up.
A belated holiday card.
Hmm?
Oh, no! It was from Harriet…
I still want to read your manuscript, the card said.
AHHHHH!
Oh, why won’t this pushy woman quit tormenting me!
Then…
Clarity struck me…
As clearly as seeing my pores in a 15X magnifying mirror…
I’m afraid!
Of Harriet…
Reading my manuscript!
But why?
It's a love story…
Sure, there's sex…
And some cuss words…
But after all…
She is 82…
Surely she can handle it.
But what if–
HEADLINE: 82-YEAR-OLD WOMAN DIES OF SHOCK
WANNABE AUTHOR TO BLAME
Lord! That'll kill my writing career.
But obviously that wouldn't happen.
So?
What is holding me back…
From giving Harriet my manuscript?
Can you shed some light?
Should I let her read it?
What should I do?
What would you do?
Always, Em-Musing
