 I’ve had a wild imagination since I can remember. When other people are having casual conversations, I’m imagining a high speed chase down a dirt road, bullets flying, followed by a torrid bang on the back seat. I’m actually visualizing this in great detail while company sits with me. They’re probably wondering why I have such an intent yet blank stare, or why I have a silly grin on my face. I promise I’m not crazy, well, maybe a little. I have a serious case of overactive imagination. I put that to good use when I signed my first publishing contract over ten years ago. I’ve written under several pseudonyms since then. It’s been a wild ride, and while there are times I want to throw in the towel like a frayed lunatic, it’s just not in me to give up. I always do the best I can—no matter what. My high is reaction from people during conversations when I’m actually paying attention. Facial expressions amuse me. When some men discover what I do for a meager living they call it porn and have an expression of rapt enthusiasm, probably imagining all hot sex and no plot. Women tend to have the same expression, but imagining a true love story with a handsome hero who takes care of his woman in every way, with a beautiful setting and a wonderful adventure. They want eye-popping sex too, but with a story attached to it. Love and lust make this world go ‘round after all. I’m here for that. I’ve got your back. I try to please everyone on paper, and if I can’t, I still keep going anyway. I’m stubborn that way. The low part of writing is when I stare blankly at the screen without a word in mind, except maybe a curse. That really sucks, especially when I have deadlines. But that’s part of this crazy life I chose, and I did choose it. My other half reminds me of that all the time. I love him, but sometimes I want to torture him in a book. Just sayin’.
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