May 7, 2019 –

“She posted? Tis about time the woman published something,” Theodore Harrington muttered. He scowled at me and flopped into a chair in the cramped doctor’s office. “Tis not much, a blog post, but better than naught.”

“How do you feel about your creator’s writer’s block?” Dr Keating asked.

I watched as Lydia Harrington carefully arranged her silk skirts before leaning back in her chair. “I feel she has wasted far too much time pretending to write.”

“What do you mean, pretending?” My anger flared.

“What she means is you’re a pro at self-sabotage!” Kimberley Northrup pulled at the waist of her colonial era gown. “You registered a blog site three years ago and did nothing with it. And forgot about it until you tried to register this one. Talk about procrastination! And you waste time staring at the computer screen and playing solitaire. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“Solitaire? The one with the magic playing cards?” Richard Harrington tipped himself from the corner and crossed to the sofa. “The twenty first century is full of distractions.” He glanced at me as he sank onto the leather cushions. “Our creator dithers over word choice and constantly rereads her paltry paragraphs, hoping for inspiration. Tis foolish.”

I felt a flash of embarrassment scald my face, and I hunched over, holding my elbows to make myself a smaller target.

Kimberley sighed. “I am tired of wearing corsets. I’m your only main character not from the 1700s, and I want to go home. And wear jeans and a decent bra. And watch tv! Write the story and get me back to 2010 already!”

“I’ve not had a proper scene in ages.” Theodore glared at me, his stare like ice. “I was denied my chance to kill at even the Titanic House Party. The ship was doomed, and yet you did not write a kill for me.”

“If not for the exercises on your writers’ forum, tis doubtful our story would be told at all,” Richard added as the other characters nodded in solemn agreement.

Dr. Keating leaned forward. “So what is the plan here? You requested your creator start this blog. What are your goals?”

“Finish the damn story,” Richard growled.

“Meet weekly for a public accounting of progress.” Kimberley held up her fingers, counting bullet points.

“Add scenes for public critique,” announced Lydia. “I tire of having our story told in pieces on the forum as part of a writing exercise. Our world is diminished with each passing year.”

“Diminished?” I frowned.

“You’ve had the idea for this story since the early 90s.” Kimberley rolled her eyes. “And let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger.”

“So we meet here next week.” Dr. Keating swung her gaze to meet mine, waiting.

I felt the my characters’ expectant stares, and sagged under their challenging weight. I nodded, feeling the knot of apprehension in my gut tighten as they cheered their victory and congratulated each other.

This, I decided, could be a terrible, awful, stupid, and possibly brilliant idea.