The problem with being a writer is having an over active imagination. Maybe you need the imagination to write, like the chicken and the egg thing. However, once you start to write your over active imagination starts to creep into every day life.
I had a very strange conversation with my son on the drive to work the other morning. We were trying to work out how many bodies you could fit in the boots of the cars as they drove past. If you were looking to dump a few murder victims it would be important to know these things.
Even before I wrote about murder I had a very nervous disposition. I think living with my husband made it worse. He scares the beejesus out of me, not on purpose. He is a clutz. It took four coats of paint to cover the red wine stain on the lounge wall when we redecorated, and we bought a dark gray carpet for a reason. Every spill, crash, breakage makes me jump out of my skin. I pre-empt him dropping things and he says it makes him nervous and more likely to have a mishap.
Now my over active imagination has me jumping at shadows. I park my car in a multi story carpark. Taking the lift has me thinking it will breakdown and I’ll be stranded. Entering the stairwell sets my heart pounding. The other night I sprinted up four flights of stairs because the door at the bottom banged shut when I was half way up the stairs. I immediately ran for my life sure that it was some crazy man set on doing me in.
Maybe I should write a new genre? My over active imagination would have a new focus and life could be less tense. If I wrote romance my husband could sweep me off my feet and take me away from all this. How about a book about financial crime? It might give me some ideas about how to make a fortune and give up the day job.
Then again, I kinda like killing people. There is nothing better to do after a hard day at the coal face than coming home and murdering someone. I often joke with my work colleagues that if they make me grumpy I will invent a character with their name and kill them slowly.