‘When did you know you were a genius?’ A great question Becky. The host of the show always asks questions. I do not know why a stupid question like this makes me think. The host was alone behind her desk as the light was focusing on me not the man next to me on this couch. I have nothing to say about the man except for his nice ascot. The white couch was directly in front of Becky’s desk. A weird set up but that’s how it is with a coffee table between us. There is a coffee table in front of us with two mugs. I do not know where the cameras are come to think of it I do not see any cameras. So, let me think about this one for a second. I want to say that I always knew I was a genius in the back of my mind. But that sounds pretentious and like I have a superiority complex or something. So let’s think. I’m sure I can come up with something I mean I am the smartest person I ever met. Not like there is much competition. I am constantly surrounded by stupidity. Why is everyone else so mislead? It has gotten to the point where blaming the public schools is a cop-out that is cheap. Sure the schools are bad if should not ruin those who did not attend them. But the rapid foolishness has made me rich. Me, the author that writes the greatest thriller novels on the shelves. Movie companies are begging for the rights to my movies. It is easy to out-smart those that are inferior to you. If I was to write a thriller novel to match someone of my intelligence? The task is impossible. I see everything in the pages and no one could get me to be shocked at an ending. I challenge anyone to write a story that I cannot predict the ending halfway through. It simply cannot be done.

When did I know I was a genius? Now let me think. This is a really great question. Becky always asks great questions. Most of the TV world in concerned with my dating life or something equality as trivial. Nothing that I cannot handle. I mean the great literary mind of a generation should be able to handle questions thought up by a two-bit floozy that slept her way to her job, with a Bachelor’s from some third rate university, let’s face it her career only lasts as long as her waistline holds up. Still, it is a good question good for you Becky. You actually had a thought that was not worthless for once. I am taking too long to answer the question. Maybe if I reached for a mug, I could stall. For so reason, I cannot move. I have never been nervous a day in my life. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been the strongest, smartest and best at my trade. Well, I left her waiting long enough, Well, Becky… Genius is not something one achieves with a singular event. The title of genius is earned. I knew I was a genius when I wrote my first manuscript but the world did not agree with me. But now that I am here promoting my twelfth book. The world knows that I am a genius. So it is relative. But a genius does not need to write books to know that they are intelligent.

‘Wow, you are simply an inspiration for all especially and those little girls who want to be writers. They can look at you and your success and just be in awe. You are at the top of your field, intelligent and might I say beautiful…’ Of course, I am beautiful, but that does not need to be mentioned. My talents should speak for themselves; my looks should have nothing to do with this. But if some busted-faced want-to-be writer needs to believe that, “I am just like her.” Then so be it. Becky probably brought up the looks thing because she does not even try anymore. She is not wearing any earrings. She looks like she shops at a mortician’s office. Where is the color? Why are we as a society always forced on looks? They mean nothing. I mean look at me for example, I am a woman. A woman that need a pseudonym to publish her first book because writing is, “Man’s work.” The pseudonym served me well but once I was famous enough I dropped my false name faster than a cheetah on speed. I do not care about riff-raff that look up to me. All I care about is their money. I do not do this to be an inspiration to women everywhere. I could care less about them. I changed the pseudonym because I wanted the, “Elite Men” that read my novel to know that they were out-smarted by me, a woman.

‘So when did you know that you wanted to be a writer? Because your first book was published under the name L.C. Lewis to mask the fact you were a woman. Was breaking through the writing world a challenge as a woman?’ Please, she is fishing for that generic answer. Oh, yes it was so hard especially as a woman (cue the sad look at the camera). It is so hard to be a woman in publishing.Give me a break. It is difficult to be successful in publishing in general. It does not matter if you are the greatest writer in the world if you are not selling books, you’re gone. Man or woman, it does not matter. Is it harder to be a woman in writing? I cannot answer that because I am not a man. I never tried to get something published as a man. My publisher changed my name on the book from Lucy Lewis to L.C. Lewis. I do not even know what the “C” stands for either. But that is the reason I switched publishers. The steam of the coffee looks very tempting. My arm just feels stuck. But I get her a bone; I always wanted to be a writer. Writers are a special breed. They need to be able to think like other people and especially become other people as they write. They can cross lines of race, gender, social class, etc. So writing is a talent that one does not choose to pursue, it was a skill that is discovered and developed. Like an athlete writing takes work. Practice, practice and more practice hours spent in one’s own head thinking and crafting characters, stories, plots, twists, settings and so much more. To me, the characters I create are real to me. They have to be because if they are not real to me then how can I convince you that they are real. I will pat myself on the back for that answer. I hate it when people tell me that writing is easy. It most certainly is not. But like the athletes that get paid to play a child’s game, I would not trades this for the world. I do what I love and get paid to do it. Hence I like my job. Just because one enjoys what they do, does mean it is easy.

‘Now Lucy I have a question about the last main character…’ Becky starts on her next question. I feel a little bad for the man next to me; he has not said anything. But my last main character was a paranoid schizophrenic. An interesting character that solves police cases but is completely crazy. With great intelligence, there is a fine line between bonkers and genius. But this character was able to make himself into a functional crazy person. I commend him for that. He is an oddball too, always quick with a job and wears scarfs instead of ties. But enough is enough. I would love to talk shop about Murdock but this man needs to speak. “Um, excuse me Becky can you ask a question to the man next to me.” I got you. I’ll go to bat for those that get passed over by the world. “Excuse me?” Becky looked so confused I had no idea she was stupid and deaf. I just gestured with my head to the man next to me. “What did not just call me?” Becky your name you thick dunce. No think of a nicer way to say that. “What man?” Okay, now she has lost it. “What do you think this is?” A TV interview. “Lucy there is no man next to you.” He is right there! The man looks at me. He was sad blue eyes that are so familiar to me. He stands up in his brown suit and red ascot and gets down on one knee. Where do I know this man from? He is a stranger, and yet I know him. I know every fiber of his being. His short blonde hair and sad blue eyes are equality stranger and familiar to me. “You do not see him?” I asked Becky. “No,” she said. “Please tell me, you see him,” I said. The box opened to a diamond ring and I lunged forward. “Please tell me, you see him.” Becky looked down at me, ‘I see him. He is perfect. You are the greatest writer of all time. But now please go to sleep.’ Okay, Becky, I will.

“Sad isn’t it.” The doctor stood up at her desk. The patent laid on the ground strapped in her stray jacket. “I don’t know doc. She seems happy.” The orderly with the needle said. “She is in a delusion. But you better keep her in the stray jacket. She was a lot less violent this time.”

“Whatever you say, doc.” The orderly picks up the world’s greatest author in her own mind. The doctor sits down at her desk but her name tag on the oak wood desk was moved slightly during her last session. She straightens the plate that reads, “Dr. Brittany Becker.”