Left to her own devices for the weekend, Alice, a professional executive for a major manufacturing firm, decided to indulge in a long held secret hobby: she would write another novel. Something she had done since grade school.
She was precocious.
Saturday morning, fresh from a breakfast of toast, coffee, orange juice and eggs, she sat down in front of her computer and cracked her knuckles at the naked page. Writing was as effortless as driving a car in a television commercial for her. She didn't just dive in, she drove in.
She never cracked her knuckles in public because her mother had told her years ago that nice girls don't do that.
She knew this to be a pile of horse droppings but out of respect she continued to obey, it didn't cost her anything.
This is good advice: concessions that cost nothing are better than free.
She had a natural talent for prose, the words were already lined up long before her fingers touched the keyboard, waiting in line in her head like patient dancers in the wings.
One by one, they left her head via her fingers and she had soon darkened hundreds of pristine pages.
Sunday afternoon, with a fresh ream of paper, she printed out a 308 page novel about a woman who makes a shocking discovery.
Then she went to her special closet where she kept all her manuscripts.
She was killed by an avalanche of unsubmitted novels.
Discovered along with her body, each one would ultimately be a best seller.