Denmark Come Home!

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

Denmark Come Home!

By Plot Roach

“So what do you do?” The man next to me asked.

“I’m a writer of sorts.” I answered.

“Of sorts? What kind of genre is that?”

“The one that isn’t widely read, I’m afraid. At least, not so much in the U. S.”

“Now this I have to hear.” he said, leaning closer. “Please start from the beginning.”

“Well…” I said, winding myself up for a good story. “When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they have a special hug…”

“Yeah, yeah. Fast forward a bit, if you would, to your ‘writing’.”

“Well, as a kid I would always make up stories. I guess all kids do when they play, but they kind of lose the love of it when they grow up, I guess.”

“But you didn’t?” he asked.

“I didn’t have many friends growing up, we moved around a lot.” I said, ducking my head in embarrassment. I was always embarrassed about my past, not that I was responsible for the multiple moves, that was my parents’ doing. But I always feel like a freak when I explain that I had thirteen different homes in seven years as a child. “Books were easier to keep track of than friends. So I ended up reading a lot.”

“Thus your love of words.” he said.

I nodded. “So I made up stories about each of the places where I lived. When I got to college, I realized that I was rather good at it.”

“So you went into a writing program?” he asked.

“No, my parents wouldn’t allow that, so I went into the teaching program.”

“So you’re a teacher?”

“No. It’s turns out that I hated it with a passion. It made me so miserable that I never continued with the program.”

“So you’re a paid writer? Using your talents to their fullest?”

“Not quite.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“I’m homeless.” I said, looking down and trying not to blush. “I do it when I have the time, which I currently have plenty of. And when I have the resources. I write what I can longhand and then type it up on the public computers at the local library, posting it on my blog when I can get access to the internet.”

“Wow.”

“Sorry if I make you feel weird. Most people just make polite conversation with me when they find out that I’m a ‘bum’, then they find an excuse to leave. You can if you want to. I won’t mind.”

“No, it wasn’t the homeless thing that bothered me. It’s just that you don’t look it -homeless, I mean. I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but you are very clean and you’re not carrying…”

“A ton of stuff?” I asked. He nodded. “It’s because I’ve learned how to take quick baths in public restrooms and sneak into the showers at the gym down the street. And as for my stuff, there’s a few safe places to hide your bags, if you know where to find them. This doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the least. In fact, I find it rather interesting. So what do you write?”

“Anything that pops into my head. But mostly science fiction, fantasy and horror. The kind of stuff that you’d find on the “Twilight Zone” or “Outer Limits“. Weird kind of stuff.”

“Do you have a specific audience in mind?”

“Yeah,” I said “anyone who will read it. I have a following on my blog, but I’m afraid I lost a few folks along the way.”

“Did they get offended by something that you wrote? That happens from time to time.”

“No, I don’t think so.” I said. “There were a few days that the site I use for my blog was down. And then there were ten days in a row where I couldn’t post anything.”

“What happened?”

“The library’s computers got a major virus running through them and had to be shut down and worked on by a specialist to get them up and running again. By the time I could post my stories again, I lost a lot of my audience.”

“Kind of fickle if they abandoned you after ten days.”

“Not really.” I said. “I had been posting daily before this happened. I lost a lot of my U.S. following and all of Denmark. And I really miss Denmark.”

“You miss Denmark?”

“There were others, too. But Denmark sticks in my head the most. I kind of feel like a kid in an old fashioned movie, like “Lassie” or something. I want to look out into the horizon and yell: ‘Denmark come home!’ Like it’s a lost dog or something.”

“You really love your writing.”

“It’s all I know, really. Though there have been some people over the years who have tried to get me to quit.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Maybe because they gave up on their dreams, they wanted me to as well. There are some people who can’t stand to see people around them happy at what they like to do and want to ruin it for them. Or maybe I’m not really good after all… but people keep visiting the site, so I must be doing something right. And I have this theory.”

“I’m all ears.” he said, smiling.

“Sometimes I feel like giving up on my writing, but I know it would be a mistake. The ideas in my head and the words from my heart are there for a reason. And to turn away from them would be to snub my nose at God/ the Universe/ the Muse/ etc. or whatever/whoever it was who brought me here to do the things my heart tells me to do. And I don’t want to waste that. I’m not the best writer on earth, but I’m not the worst.”

“And?” he asked.

“I know that there’s someone out there who makes really ugly art, just as there is someone out there who loves to collect it. So there has to be a reason for doing what I do. Even if it’s only for people in Malaysia to read it and scratch their heads. But enough of my pity party, what’s your story?”

“I was waiting for the bus, much like you are, and thinking about the small publishing company that I and a friend are starting up. I was wondering where we were going to find some talent. And I think I just found our first writer.”

“Really?”

“Only if you’re interested.” he said.

“Can we advertise my books in Denmark?”