Out of real characters. That I know.

One of  my best friends. Knows that I’m a writer. But isn’t interested in what I write. Or avoids reading it. For one reason or another. That’s all right. I don’t require being read. Anyway, she suggested the other day. That I keep a journal. Because I talk about interesting stuff. I told her that I do.  Every day. And that it’s available. To be read. She wondered how often I post in the journal. ‘Oh,’ I declared. ‘Tens of thousands of  times. I even occasionally write about you.’ Of course, she’s given a  hidden or obscured identity. Posed as a character. In a story. Which allows me to embellish. A little bit. Or a whole lot. In a sense. She’s being psychoanalyzed.  Made anew. Maybe she would recognize herself. Maybe not. But I suspect. She’d rather not know. That my pastime is to create characters. Partly built out of real characters. That I know. --Jim Broede