Ghostwriter

Daily Prompt: Ghostwriter

If you could have any author –living or dead – write your biography, who would you choose?

Oh my gosh!
This is a toss-up between Phillipa Gregory and Julian Fellowes.

Phillipa Gregory

From the first lines of “The Other Boleyn Girl”, I was already hooked. So this got me to read her other works. I love how in each novel, Gregory marries historical facts with fiction. And how she tells a scene so vividly that even for a person with slow imagination (like me) can clearly see the details of the story.

I would like that in the telling of my life story. Factual but with imaginative back story details. Truth but with the needed drama.

Julian Fellowes

Fellowes, on the other hand, I became a fan after seeing Downton Abbey. I just loved the show’s concept, the witty lines, and unforced humor. I admire how he is able to share the British history and culture through the show without being to preach-y and boring. I loved the show so much that I started researching for Fellowes’ other works, like his novels. And every time, he showed the same accurate cultural and historical details wrapped with the same witty and fun dialog.

So that won’t be too bad a theme for a biography, right? Accurate minute details with fun retelling of it all.

 

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The Clock

I was walking down the last stretch of street towards my house.
No. Not walk. More like float.

I looked at my wristwatch.
Quarter past eight.
Fifteen more minutes and he will be gone forever.

“Just breathe.”, talking to myself loudly. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
Also, wasn’t this the point of these six months?
Six months of planning and coming up with strategies.
And wasn’t I the one who convinced him to take the shot?
Wasn’t it I who said that it was now or never?

This is when the tears started streaming down my face.
I wiped them angrily but they just wouldn’t stop.
It’s a good thing the street’s deserted or I would’ve looked like a mad woman.

What’s gotten into me?
He’s my best friend and I want what’s best for him.

How the hell am I suppose to know what’s best for him?
What if I’m what’s best for him?
And not this pretty little rich girl he’s been dreaming of since we were in the fifth grade?

I looked at the time again.
Eight thirty-one.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
His plane would have taken off by now.
And forty-five minutes from now, she would greet him at the gate with a kiss and probably run off into the sunset of wherever.

I arrived at home still with a heavy feeling of regret and what ifs.
Sitting on the living room sofa just staring at nothingness.
I just sat there.

My useless reverie was disturbed by a car pulling over in the driveway.
I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock.

9 o’clock.
Could it be? Could it be he changed his mind?
And instead of getting on the plane, he drove back here?
I stood up. Looking at the front door as it opened.

I held my breathe.
A familiar face.
But not the face I was expecting.
My mom walked towards me and said: “Are you okay?”
I burst out crying.

This post is in response to Daily Prompt: The Clock.