I'm one of those pathetic sort of people who doesn't watch tv or read much news, so I feel sort of invasive pretending I can write the experiences of a person who's name I barely know. From the first time I saw the prompt for this, I was pretty certain of what I would write about . . . but I still have no idea WHO to write about.

So, although the point of the assignment was probably to write with a certain person in mind and flesh out someone we don't really know . . .


She sprawled on the bed in her day clothes, shifting painfully to find the most comfortable position. The trainer was right: she was discovering muscles she didn't know she had, but only because she was now sore in ways she hadn't know existed. Here, in her own room, with the shades drawn, she could finally squish her face into the unbecoming mush it had been wanting to fall into all evening. "This is how normal people are supposed to feel," she muttered to herself, and she wasn't sure whether her words were bitter or wistful.

She could always, she offered herself, go injured diva on the world, whine and complain about her situation, fire her trainer in a spoiled fury. But it wasn't as if a different trainer would get her ready for the actions sequences in November with any less pain, and although it would be wonderful to let loose like that . . . what came after would only be more frustrating.

Sighing, she raked her fingers through her hair. It had been cut short for the last production, but the directors wanted it longer for the next filming. From the wigs she'd be wearing until her hair caught up, it looked like a dye job was in order, too. Oh, how nice it would be to have a hairstyle and keep it for a year or so . . .

Sometimes she wondered why she was still doing this, why she didn't retire, give up acting and publicity and media frenzies. She could sell books in some out-of-the-way oceanside town, catering to tourists in the warm months and lounging in the winter, enjoying a nice fireplace and the silky scent of campfire wood. "Or draw caricatures," she snorted aloud. "I've always been good at drawing caricatures."

A voice wound up the stairs and through the locked door. "Honey, don't you have that thing at the rink in half an hour? Shouldn't you be getting going?"

"Yeah, I'll be down in a minute!" Somehow, she knew, she wouldn't be complete without this life. The intregues, the drama, the fame made her feel like a member of the court, balancing friends and enemies to get ever closer to the power of the queen. And if she didn't have her acting, where would all those other people she'd been go?

As she stood, stretching painfully, she wondered how long Danny would stay with her, and whether the girlscouts still liked pink or if girls were choosing another favorite color. She made a few faces in the mirror by the bed, imagining each of them on the cover of tabloids with a grimace and a laugh. Moving to the door, she returned a congenial smile to her face, opened the door, and--Lights! Camera! Action!--stepped out into the hallway beyond.