I have this dialog inside my head that begins running whenever I see something that makes me blurt out, “Holy shit.” The dialog is always the same – “What would Kim do?” or “What would Kim think?” Kim is one of the main characters in my novel – Kim Donovan – and she lives inside my noodle to the point where my family wonders if committing me wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s fair to say that she’s my alter ego, with the exception that she’s younger (bitch), braver, can handle blood and guts, and can eat a box of Twinkies without worrying about wearing them on her hips.
She’s gotten me through a lot of tough times. There was the time when my first book appearance had my intestinal tract playing tiddlywinks with fear, but she was right beside me, whispering in my ear. “
She was also my godsend during one of the toughest experiences of my writing career – being on a panel of docs who were speaking to a roomful of other docs about integrative medicine. One doc saved all his vitriol for me. I blanched. Jesus, what would Kim do? I thought about for a nanosecond before I told the guy to mind his manners, after all, was he raised in a barn with a herd of pigs? I then let him know that he could show me the same respect as I’d shown him and the rest of the audience. The bastard was escorted out. High fives to Kim.
So, this morning, the dialog started running again after seeing an article in my paper about a strapless panty. WTF? How can panties stay up unless there’s a waistband of some sort? The picture didn’t do it justice (it is a family newspaper), so I went to the website. Double WTF? At first, second, and third blush, it looks uncomfortable as hell. Is that Velcro sticking to the ahh, umm, uhh..? I still haven’t figured out the mathematical algorithm for how the backside stays in place. Glue? Ouch. And what happens if you sweat? Aye, I don't even want to think about it. Evelyn, get me my smelling salts.
Needless to say, my brain is on overload – especially when I have to consider that the designer has raked in $90,000 since April. That’s far north of my royalty checks to date.
So, Kim, you’re a fairly salty character whose filter between your brain and mouth is somewhat nonexistent. Think I ought to have you wear a pair of these in my next book? It’d give surgery a whole new feeling, wouldn’t it?
Kim: “Damn, girl, forget about surgery. Rewrite me! I’m going into the undie business."