I woke up this morning in a best-selling first person narrative.  Yesterday I had gone through my routines at a normal reader's pace, fast and slow, picking up and setting down.  Nothing off-putting, but not exactly moving stuff. Nothing grand that even I can remember--definitely brushed my teeth, went to work, and, I probably had a coffee or two.  But today the rising action picked right up: Complications arose.  

My legs ran right off themselves, my mind swirled with speed-read words as my story was devoured.  Though my smile was plastered on, I couldn't help feeling that the readers were enjoying the whole thing much more than I was. I'm being vague, I realize.  Apparently I'm under a tight contract by the publisher--can't give anything away.  I do apologize.

I can say, that I felt like this tree that had been growing at a steady, unremarkable pace, alone on a field, but quite content.  Plenty of visitors, a good balance of sunshine and rain.  But then a tornado swept sideways right through my growing place.  Feeling a little windblown, a little out of breath and naked.  Ok, it's an adjustment, the tree thinks to itself. I can deal with this hair style change.  Just let me have it for a bit and I'll get used to it.

Everyone has an opinion on your life all of the sudden, when you're a character in a best seller.  I like hearing about the "foreshadowing" and predictions for what's coming next.  But it's honestly freaking me out.  Everyone else is more ready for this than I am for tomorrow.  And they're speeding right along.

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