A shiny rainbow fog blows from the spout of a magic lamp.
“…Rainbow?” I question, not trusting my own eyes, even as the genie transforms out of colored thin air. “Seriously?”
The genie coughs up a glittery fog ball, but quickly recovers. “Yes, but my friends call me Diverse.” He stretches the stiffness out of his smoky bones and zones in with an inquisitive stare. “So creative writer, what is your wish?”
My mouth moves, but no words come out this time. Diverse brushes some stray specs off of each shoulder, clearly waiting for me to recover from shock. When he’s sparkle-free, he shoots me a look that says he hasn’t got all day.
OMG! OMG! Here’s my chance! I can have anything I want. My writing wish come true! Right here, right now…a fabulous agent, multiple book offers, a big screen movie deal—I can ask for ANYTHING!
“I’d like to be a Plotter please.”
Diverse rolls his eyes, and I can see bold letters scrolling across his yellow irises. I’m not sure, but I think they’re spelling out what he’s thinking. I move in closer to read: Oh God , please not another obsessive writer.
Well that wasn’t very nice.
This time I address his nose. “Yes, a Plotter. You know, as in planting prose so I can snip stems of ideas off whenever I like. I’ve tried outlining stories before, but nothing ever grows. My creativity wilts inside any kind of structured walls.”
“So why bother?” he asks. “Is being a Pantser getting in the way of your writing career?”
I flick my earlobe. “That would mean I’d actually have to have a writing career right?”
I scan the tart response in Dive’s eyes—I’m pretty sure he spelled pathetic wrong.
“Well, even though I’m not published yet, I guess I’m doing pretty well,“ I counter, more for me than him. “Four completed books in the last year and a half, a brand new WIP, and I can’t help but feel like a better writer after each one. I’ve even had some encouraging interest in my latest story.”
Two impatient stripes of green puff out of Dive’s nostrils. “So? I still don’t see the problem. And I’m sorry to break this to you, but my magic only works for those who don’t have any plotting or pantsing skills whatsoever.”
“What are those people called?”
“Sorry, your wishes have no power.”
No power? But what if pantsing isn’t the way to go? What if being a Plotter’s the key to getting published? What if—
“If you’re finished, can you please write me back into the bottle now? Bachelor in Paradise is on in like five.”
I meet his eyes, not bothering to censor my thoughts, hoping he has a reverse-eye-read thingy. Then I realize—I summoned him for nothing.
…I am doing ok. I just can’t give up. I have to write the way I’m most comfortable. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for outlines and spreadsheets, or organization (just ask my closet). Maybe I’m just over thinking this whol–
“Sometime today, Pants Mistress?”
And with just one delete, Diverse is gone.
But I can bring him back anytime I want—and no outline’s ever gonna stop me.
So how does your writing garden grow? (-: