And Who Are You, Again?

Since I have started writing a new book, it  has occurred to me that I live in a very strange world.

The characters in my head, which allegedly don't really exist, become more real to me at times than those of you characters who are walking around.

That should scare me.

It probably does scare you.

Now, my characters are usually benign folks, I rarely have the bad guys to write about. Only once have I written a short story that involved a very bad person. And I put off writing that for nearly a year, but as usual they wouldn't leave me alone, and  I figured it was better to get them on paper and out of my head.

For those of you who do not write, and maybe even for some of those of you who do, it's hard to explain this phenomenon.

It's sorta like a pillow that's overstuffed and bursting at the seams, unable to contain it all, spilling out onto another surface. Only different, of course. But I have been accused of  having nothing but stuffing in my head, so maybe it ain't so different after all.


But how do people, like, say, Stephen King, tolerate all that boogied-boogied stuff going on in their heads, not just crazy characters, but evil?

So the point(s) to all this:

1. I have people in my head.
2. At least they are nice people.
3. I'm fine, thanks for asking, and
4. My hat is off to folks who write the scary, like Mr. King.

I may take my hat off, but the aluminum foil is staying firmly put.