The Fence

I finished reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil a few days ago. I also watched the movie, just before I finished the book. I am slow in getting to popular items at times. But this is also the twentieth anniversary of the novel, so in a way, I was trending again. I had watched a little bit of the movie in Presby hospital when my mother was there many years ago. I had wanted to read the book because Mom said at the time it was good. I don't know if I would have appreciated it, then.
The book reads like a novel, although, John Berendt wrote nonfiction about the city of Savannah, Georgia and the people he met. Most of it is true. He changed some of it. I watched an interview of him. He wrote it so he could see if he could write a book. Up till then he only penned magazine articles.
The movie showed it more than the book, but people tell a writer stories. And they asked about the book he would write. They knew it would become a movie and they all wanted to be in it. Some were. The defense lawyer played the judge. Jerry, the hair dresser, played a small part as himself. Emma Kelly played the piano. And the Lady Chablis, who made the story, delighted. 
As happens when people discover a writer, along with telling their own stories, they pitch ideas for books.  I wish I had a dollar for every time I hear at work, "You should write about this place." Uh, HIPPA. But this is a shout out to all my supporters at work. The brother who faithfully visits his baby brother three to four times a week, asking about my progress, encouraging me not to quit. The ladies who have read my novels and love them, reminding me of my mother, always loving what I do. The co-workers I could ghost write their stories as they say, "If I wrote a book." The daughter at the dining room shouting, "Hey, Jessica, how's it going?" Jessica as in Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote, is her reference.
I stand in awe at the well wishes of those I meet. I have published two novels. I feel humble more than proud. I walk that fence of wanting to be read but not being recognized. I still love roaming the book store with my books on the shelf, but seeking bargains. The customers don't know I'm an author. I stroll through the mall, observing people for fiction ideas.
I am content in this part of the journey. I sit at home, lap top to type

in my stories, cats on both sides of me, sometimes inching their way to the keyboard, the window opened for outside noise and air, and the dog laying on the porch, observing the world, waiting for that walk. To make this a job, I should probably go somewhere to write, but I love my couch with my animals. Maybe if I did do this only, I would need to go somewhere to write. But I go to my fan club almost every day, where I hear, "My nurse writes novels."