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It started with a joke about how I couldn’t afford to die. I’d be 132 years old just sitting at a typewriter–a skeleton–and working feverishly (do bones get fevered?) to finish books before I could finally lay to rest in my coffin and nonsense like that.
The first cog rotated.
“That would be an interesting story… a skeleton writing books.”
Fabulous hair stylist, Beth, shook her head. “You need a ghost.”
“Ooooh… a real ghostwriter!”
The next cog clicked into place.
It should have been a hint. Really. I have no excuse. And c’mon! A HAIR SALON? Seriously? Can’t a woman get her hair cut and colored without her imagination holding her and half the salon hostage in the process?
“She could be a fan!”
“What if she’s an interior designer?”
Cogs whirled at breakneck–or gear–speed.
“No way! That won’t–no wait. It would. We could…”
“If the FBI got involved…”
“Ooooh. Yeah. Then the guy would doubt–”
“That could be book two! And then–”
“Ooooh… in book three…”
I’ve got issues, people. Issues. Beth the fabulous hairstylist has exactly 32 hours to name the main female character. If she doesn’t, I’m using “Leah Zalei.” Sure hope she comes up with something.