The Writers Voice_Johnson_The Passenger


The Passenger, a modern satire, is complete at 74,000 words.

Kyle, a housewife, waits for greatness to find her while she raises her husband’s children. Trevor, a thrice-divorced real estate exec, sells the American dream but has no idea how to find it. And Hal works as a copy guy in a body he stole while trying to outrun the Divine Council who want him back in his post as creator of the universe.

Set in modern day Los Angeles, three people do their best to figure out how they became passengers in their own lives. When they each hit their personal breaking point, finally coming together at a court ordered anger management/smoking cessation group, the three forge an odd friendship which includes vampire blood banks, a biker gang and the possible extinction of humanity.

Readers of A.M. Homes and Tom Perrotta will enjoy this absurd tale about the complexities of everyday life. The complete manuscript is available upon request.

First 250 

KYLE—The Happy Homemaker

I always thought I would be someone great, someone different. I’m not, I am a housewife. I make babies, good babies, cute babies—but babies. Millions of people do it; it takes minimal effort, a gift from God given to even those who don’t appreciate or deserve it; to people like me. I pray every night for a sign to reveal itself, to show me who I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to do. The closest I came was at a bank. I’d just found out I was pregnant with my first child. I stood in the endless line wondering if having a child would put a damper on my dreams. As I walked the final length of the maze, cordoned off by red velvet dividers, there it stood, an ad for some product, ‘Your dreams are right on schedule.’ I kept the baby and have since had two more. My dream never showed up though I continue to wait while I raise my husband’s children.

I don’t really identify with them. If they hadn’t come from my body, I would insist on a paternity test, well maternity in this case. Funny the identity of the mother is never called into question, though I’ve often wished it were.    

I sound awful, but I can think this, I can’t stop myself from doing so. I never say it aloud, though I wonder if they can feel it. Children are intuitive things, just like animals. 

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