Waterford was slowly waking under the embrace of a bright mid-winter sun. Songbirds chanted their morning chorus as though reveling in the sunshine and the unbroken expanse of blue sky overhead. The squirrel community, however, wasn't paying attention. They lounged atop the fenceposts, contentedly napping like cats on a windowsill.
Inside the cozy walls of 1313 Bluebird Lane, I sat nursing a latte, awaiting the descent of Ms. Wonder from her upper-level sanctum. My eye caught a rippling shimmer near the base of the staircase, and with that, she appeared. It's a mystery how she does it.
"Good morning, Wonder. Marvelous to see you. I want to tell you something. As you know, I'm currently on a reading frenzy."
"You're on a feeding frenzy? Like a shark?"
"Not a feeding frenzy, Poopsie. I said, reading—a reading frenzy. But I'm happy you got the words mixed up. Of course, it's an easy thing to do, and there's a wheeze in there somewhere. I'll use it in my next blog post."
"If you're going to continue with puns and jokes all morning, I'm going back upstairs."
"No, wait, Poops, I think you're going to like what I have to say."
"If you're going to make me listen to puns all morning, I might just go back upstairs."
"Fine," I said. "Let me marshal my thoughts, and I'll give it to you skinny."
"Good," she said, and I used the next few moments to marshal. Once I'd worked out the outline, I was good to go. The outline must be properly organized to tell a story well. The rhythm will sort itself out once the speaker gets up to cruising speed.
"Wonder, I think you're familiar with the work of Sir Michael Caine, the legendary actor?"
"The actor in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels?"
"That's right, and many other films—all of them gems; none of them flops. I've always enjoyed watching him in movies, at awards shows, and on talk shows."
"Yeah, he was a fine actor."
"Precisely! "He was a master at transforming himself into different characters, all of them believably authentic."
A sudden clapping interrupted my story. It was Ms. Wonder clapping her hands together very close to my face. I stopped talking and gave her a stern look.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It had to be done. You were caught in a self-induced trance. I feared you might get stuck and not be able to find your way back."
"Wonder! That's the most ridiculous excuse you've ever dreamed up to get out of hearing one of my stories. And this one has special meaning to me."
"Okay then, I surrender. Let's hear it."
"The question that came to mind when watching Sir Michael or any of my favorite actors was this: How do we know when a truly accomplished actor stops acting? How do we know the personality being interviewed on late-night TV or making an acceptance speech isn't another act?"
"That's interesting," she said. "A lot of fun to think about, but probably nothing someone hasn’t asked before. In fact, I know it isn’t new because I've asked myself the same question."
"Exactly!" I said, and I said it with a lot of topspin. I’m not exactly sure why I responded so vigorously. Perhaps I wanted to disrupt the whim we had going.
"There's a comparable idea when you consider authors. When are they being transparent and allowing us to see their honest persona, and when are they creating fiction?"
"It sounds much like what you do in The Circular Journey."
"Exactly!" I said again, wondering if I was teetering on the brink of being clapped down again. All those exclamations were making me feel rather bucked.
"Wonder, I've always thought I’d led an unconventional life—one that others might find interesting. I've wanted to write a sort of autobiography but felt too self-conscious. By fictionalizing my life in The Circular Journey, I feel that I'm writing my autobiography in an oblique way."
At this point, the lovely Wonder Worker, who had been listening attentively (bless her heart) with bright eyes and a pleasant expression, opened her mouth to comment. I was happy to see her hanging onto every word, but I couldn’t let her interrupt now, so I pressed on.
"In other words, Poopsie, am I and my life the ultimate creation of my writing career? Of course, I write about actual events in my daily life, but I never shove something into the story just because it happened, and I never let facts get in the way of a good story. Wodehouse was the same."
"I’ve been following in my hero’s footsteps without realizing it. My readers get to know me, not through my ego's bluster but from every word that proceedeth from the mouth of my higher power--P.G. Wodehouse."
Her expression changed when she heard those words. It lost some of the enthusiasm and took on a more skeptical hue.
"Oh?" she said. "You channel P.G. Wodehouse, do you?"
"Oh, I’m so glad you agree!" I said. "Now I can quote you in today’s blog post."
"And so," she said, "now that you’ve documented that small caveat lector, why not get on with it? I know that’s exactly what I’m going to do."
And with that, she seemed to shimmer once more before disappearing upstairs.