Dear Practically Strangers,

Man in a Bowler Hat,  Rene Magritte 1964

Some of you out there, you might just be going about your life. And then someone like me, a writer, I hear you laugh, catch some mannerism and you stick. You standout for this reason or that something I can't quite pinpoint, something endearing or attractive (or repulsive because we need enemies, too.) 

You get me dreaming up concoctions and scenarios, scenes and conversations. Conversations you’ll never have but in my writer’s made-up world, fiction in the bookstore maybe someday, baby.

I mold the real you, the one maybe I know just a little, or more, or not at all aside from pleasantries and greetings, observations here and there.  I  grasp at little things and twist and turn and pull them and then I spit out some clone of you which I need in written form, in this story.  Some part of you will live forever in this other world. This resemblance of you, big or small, will remain locked amongst tens of thousands of my words, within hundreds of pages.

So, I’m sorry if it always seems like I’m watching you, trying to get eye contact or a few words. It’s not you, it’s the ghost of you I made up, and I sorta need a charge of you every now and then to remind me of so-in-so in the book.

Most people, they just give me a phrase here, a scene, a pet name.  But you, you helped me create a whole pretend person.

Are you on to me, muses? I think if you figured it out, you might just blush, a shake of the head, rub of the chin. Well, okay then. A chuckle, head tilt, eyebrows raise. So, there’s that. I uh, huh, I don’t know.

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

So, if you ever get bored with your real life, let me know, and I can tell you about your pretend one. You sail, did you know that? You don't live here, you live in Chicago...and it goes on. 

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