by Rachael Phillips
Perhaps you are of noble literary stock, having sworn off
television forever in order to perfect your craft. I, however, am married to a
man who enjoys this kind of “together time,” and lately, we have succumbed to
the Castle series.
For you who study adverbs together instead, Rick Castle
is a internationally best-selling author who writes mystery and suspense novels.
He works daily with a gorgeous, street-savvy New York City detective, Kate
Beckett. Together, they put all the bad guys and girls in jail—she, wearing the
appropriate bulletproof vest labeled “police,” and he wearing one labeled
“writer.”
Castle produces a new best seller with every
episode—except when writer’s block strikes. Then he releases one every other
episode. All this is accomplished in exactly one scene out of hundreds in which
Castle actually plants his rump in a chair, sits at a computer and writes ...
for exactly 13 seconds.
His reviews soar to the moon and back. Readers bow down
and worship him on the streets. He never has to worry that his book-signing
attendees only ducked into the bookstore to find Karen Kingsbury and/or a
restroom.
Did I mention he’s a millionaire? With a few estates
dotted here and there that he kind of seems to forget about?
Unless my memory is worse than I thought, I don’t have
extra mansions stashed away in Martha’s Vineyard.
But, then, no muggers, mobsters, crazed scientists,
crooked politicians, loco cowboys, pathological doctors or salivating tigers
have chased me lately.
Hordes of readers do not visit shrines built in my honor.
But one recent widower told my husband, his doctor, “I always look forward to
Wednesdays, when the paper publishes your wife’s column. On Wednesdays, I know
I will laugh.”
So, curled beside my honey on the couch with our
February-appropriate lap robes, I can live vicariously through Castle’s blessings. And count my own.
Except for one thing.
I really want one of those vests with “writer” on it to
wear to conferences.
Really.
