As a writer I'm constantly thinking. I play games with myself -- putting my mind and sometimes my body into a film, a book, a thought, a story. I'm pretending nearly every minute of my life when I'm not actively engaged in reality. I prefer pretending, it's prettier, bigger, better, I have more money - - I have absolutely NO fat whatsoever in my dreams and I kill people - LEGALLY.
Writing is just that - - writing. It's a process of putting what you think onto paper, into a database, you put it somewhere so you can say you did it, it was your idea, and no one else can muscle in on it and call it theirs. Of course, muscling into someone elses haven and stealing their hard-thought out ideas is part of the writers fantasy, but we don't do it. Good writers don't do it, we respect the others and we kick ourselves for not thinking of it first....or at least not registering it first.
I was riding home from a botched arrangement the other day; a day I was suppose to drive my own car home but ended up in the jump seat of a stranger's van and believe me that gave me ample time to plan a murder...even my own. Imagine this: You're in a van, a stranger's van, a van of a man you've never met and wouldn't have met if you hadn't met him. He was just there when HE needed to be. He's the murderer -- he has to be, it was meant to be. SO, is he going to kill me, is he going to kill Laura (she was with us) or are we going to stop off somewhere between here and there and kill someone completely ignorant of our plan? PERFECT - - we kill someone together, I never see Mr. Van again, he doesn't know who I am, and the only connection we have at all is the repair shop where we met -- may I add, a repair shop that could be where he hides HIS bodies. I hide mine in the woods - - different woods. I tend to bring them to a hidden place, chop them up with wood choppers, put them on ice, mail the pieces to myself at different post office locations and then feed them to pigs all around the county. ARE YOU STILL READING THIS? LOL - - my bad.
The drive home - some 38 miles - was epic for the mind. Laura helped; she was in the back of the van. Pitch black, thumping around with electrical cords, a boom box, a tool box or two, loose tools and this van guy's bloody work clothes - - I mean, greasy work clothes. I just said bloody because I slipped right back into the plot. I burn my clothes, I walk out of the woods naked, completely naked - - so you can see where being wonderfully built physically without additional body fat makes me the ideal killer. Besides, I'm a former English teacher; unless the victim is a student or an administrator no one suspects me. No one.
Laura and I got home and she opened the back door of the van -- because she could. In my mind she was trapped, her hands were taped together, and she was trying to get out of the situation - - She looked me squarely in the eyes and said "Oh my GOSH mom, I totally killed three people! I was awesome. I was the lost little school girl right, well, they didn't know it, but I only look 12, I'm 21, I lured them into the van, I strangled them with the cord in the dark and then pushed them out on the side of the road when he slowed down!" I was laughing - - I told her I know. I know because I was behind her in another van, I stopped, picked the bodies up, threw them in the back of my van and we had to dispose of the bodies now....we laughed. We went to Starbucks and decided to leave the bodies, the van, the man, everyone back in the world of imagination. For now.