I killed off my coworker, today.
Yup. I threw him out a porthole window, the ship’s propeller sucked him in and shot him out as shark bait.
God, what a catharsis. It was GREAT!
I laughed so hard.
My hero in the book said, “Oops.”
The heroine gave him a high-five.
Poor Mohammad, evil terrorist.
In real life, he’s just a pain-in-the-ass project manager and misogynist.
Writing is therapy.
Yup.
I think I’ll kill off another project member this week.
I shall write her as a real witch, who is working with a dark lord to destroy the world.
She’ll have to die a terrible death, don’t you think?
In real life? She made it a point to be abusive and condescending on a phone call.
In that she works for a multi-million dollar partner, I bit my tongue.
I wrote her into my next book, during that call.
Bwa ha haaaa.
If they only knew.
I write fiction.
It is my therapy.
It is my joy.
It is my escape.
A young man left the gym today and made it a point of removing his shirt for all to see.
Guess I’ll write in those biceps, and tattoos, as well.
And my fears, and my tears.
And my emotional issues.
And share myself with you.
You know me from my writing.
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