As a writer, I often times drift off to sleep creating stories. And just as often I completely forget about them the next morning, no matter how many cups of coffee I drown my brain in.
Last night, though, a character formed and I wrote snippets of it on paper next to my bed. She is entirely a figment of my imagination, since I don’t hob-nob with the exceedingly rich and possibly famous. Here she is:
Mimi Lee Banes Potter Haddonfield, the patron saint of young Atlanta society, stands in front of a series of priceless Degas paintings in Venice when she has an epiphany: the 18th century floor under her Gucci high heels is begging to be made into place mats.
Mimi (not “Me-Me” as some peons think it should be spelled), has homes in Manhattan, Southampton, Rio, Paris, and a few others she is sure are fabulous but escape her memory.
“Wherever I am, I’m always looking for the best designer or dermatologist–you know, a doctor for those pesky small problems of the skin.” She waves her beringed hand and tries to smile, but her mouth won’t cooperate. After a few attempts she resigns herself to the Mona Lisa look. Or as her frenamies whisper, Me-Me’s constipated face.
—Anne Skalitza, 2018