I kill people in books. It’s true. The lady who cuts me off for a parking spot, the bat-sh*t crazy chick who yells at me in a bar…even the lady at the post office who growls at my many packages. They die. And hard.
One of the most cathartic things to do is work out your demons via writing. Of course, you often end up passing emails to your critique partner titled, “Best place to bury a dead body,” or “Do you think I could snap a neck with a stapler?” In the name of research, of course. Other fun notes we pass back and forth:
- Does the human body really bend that way?
- I don’t think a man would really call that “Tonto.”
- Your heroine already fell off the bed – there’s no way he can reach her now.
- I think the grave should be deeper.
- I’m not sure they’d eat his liver first.
So, one of the many fun things about being a writer is that you can talk pretty much about anything. In one of my works in progress, my heroine stumbles upon a marijuana growing farm. Well, my husband was using my laptop and went to ‘favorites’ for our bank’s URL.
He finished banking and asked, “Why do you have the ‘hydroponic marijuana guide’ listed as a favorite?” My answer: “So I wouldn’t forget the name.” What’s cool is that he nodded, because that made perfect sense to him. He lives with a writer.