If I Wasn't A Writer (Chocolate Hotness)

If I wasn’t a writer…

Let’s face it. I know I’m not normal and despite what my mother says, “Baby, you are so unique.” Or what my hubby says, “You are one in a million.” I know that what they’re really saying is, “You are one step away from a strait-jacket.” But hey, the crazy in me takes it all in stride.

It’s no secret that my debut book Dangerously Mine was hatched because I kept having dreams about Earth being invaded by hostile aliens. The self-defense mechanism in my brain just happened to click on and think of a way that the alien invasion could turn into a good thing (being rescued by a hunky alien king and having lots of hot sex). Yay for self-defense mechanisms!

I was blessed with an over active imagination (yes, I see it as a blessing). While my school-age friends were dreaming about the boogey man, I was dreaming about vampires. By the time I reached junior high, my closest friends understood that the cross I wore around my neck wasn’t because I was very religious, it was to stave off a vampire attack. And even though they would laugh about it, whenever a bump was heard in the night, they would all rush to my side. Why? Because I was the only one prepared to fight off a vampire attack.

I would keep two Popsicle sticks in my pocket at all times. Why? You guessed it, so I could whip them out and form a cross at a moment’s notice. Ever since my mom caught me tearing the braches from the trees in the backyard and sharpening the ends on the sidewalk into points, the Popsicle sticks were my only defense.

By high school my vampire obsession hadn't subsided, but had to make room for aliens. I was convinced they were coming and they weren’t going to be happy when they got to Earth. Think about it, if you had to travel years to get to your destination would you be in a good mood? No. Exactly.

Luckily for me, writing provides an outlet for every cray-cray thought I have in my mind. Now, when I wake up in a cold sweat, I turn to my pen and paper and write the craziness down. I, like my family, is hoping that one day I’ll be able to make a living off my craziness.

I could ramble on and on about the inner workings of my mind, but I think you get the gist.

If I weren’t a writer, I would be on medication and sitting in group therapy.