The world as I know it is surrounded by the people who care about me, the pets who use me for pillows and give me the brown eyed stare that tries to hack into my will and force me to take them out and stop writing, and the hundreds of books that make up the universe in which I plow through every day. I have a coffin that has become a character in my head named Jerry, who is turning out to have an affinity for eighties horror movies. My collection of bookcases house the volumes I use to escape the world that I live in.
The universe I survive in lingers in my mind, divided into separate and yet blurring realms where heroes and heroines traipse hoping to catch me off guard when I have nothing going on or might be in between worlds. Sometimes I traverse two or three realms, balancing several at a time. People ask me how I can keep everything straight with all the different projects I have going. The answer is I’m insane.
I have three different devices I work in and each of them I have a different book going on. Others ask how I keep from the worlds not crossing over. Well the ideas are kinda compartmentalized in my head the characters don’t seem to socialize with one another. I guess they don’t want to ruffle any feathers especially when you might have a vampire talking to an angel or a werewolf noshing on imp. They are busy living in their own minds maybe carrying on their own inner monologues with people in their minds. So there are worlds within worlds, universes within universes and now I am starting to sound like Men In Black Two.
But this is the world I live in, working on the day job, slaving in the house and making dinner for the hubby. I write to relieve the screaming in my head and create more realms with monsters and hot hunks who have fangs or tales. It keeps me busy and makes me wonder who is writing me.