I know I’m a writer.   I know because everything I see is a work in progress.  My muse is relentless in driving me to write.  That hot guy who helped me load my groceries into the car?  Wrote a story about him…it was steamy.  In those few moments, he was a god in bed…  Poor man, I almost feel sorry for him, he will never know.

An innocent phrase overheard, a picture on a billboard, or just a random thought, any of those can become a story.   I’m absolutely sure I’m not alone in this.  All writer’s experience this to varying degrees.  I, have an extremely vivid imagination, embarrassingly so sometimes.

People who know me don’t even bother to ask anymore when I start to scribble on a napkin at a restaurant. They have even gotten past rolling their eyes at each other knowingly.  Personally, I think they don’t want to piss me off or they may wind up in one of my books!  Only I know if they already have or not…

So you can imagine my surprise when I sat down at my laptop, gathered my notes, and began to write… and after the first few paragraphs, I realized the story was about me!  Oh dear lord, how could I expose myself like this??  The graphic details of an epic, deviant, bondage, love scene!!!  Well wait a minute…who will know what part is real and what part is imagination?  Better yet… who will know it’s me… no one.  Even now, dear reader, you might be asking, I wonder which book she’s talking about?   Maybe there isn’t one… not to confuse you, but this whole paragraph may well be just my muse trying to embarrass me.

I daydream of dystopian worlds, magical places, werewolves and elves; it’s a very mad chaotic place between my ears where my muse dwells.  Thankfully, she always hands me a fairly happy ending to the stories.  I will let her have her way with me for now.  When the stories turn dark, in a bad way, or deals with dying, I will worry.

So to that end, this has given me an idea (what a surprise!)…a story where the writer has no control over what is written, doesn’t remember writing it, and discovers only after its published in their name that it is about a very secret part of their life.

“What book?”  She asked.

“Why the one just published last week, silly!” her friend answered.

“It’s you that’s silly!  I haven’t published anything in months!”

“Well…Here it is.”

She picked up the book, scanning the picture, title, and author.  The picture was a depiction of a woman trying to kill another woman with a knife.  The title of the book was, To Kill Her Softly, the author’s name was hers.

“Well, I should take this home and read it then.  I have an idea what it’s about though.  Are there any reviews on it?”

“Oh yes!  It’s one of your best!  Who else would have thought to write a story about an author so distraught with her muse, that in an effort to silence her, she kills herself?”

That’s it, I’m killing the bitch!  She storms out the door.