After fourteen years, you’d think this would get easier.
In some ways, it has. It’s almost reflex now.
I mean, how hard is it to string a hundred words together to make some semblance of a world?
Pick out some character, build them up, and then crush them with some sick and twisted tragedy.
Some days, it comes easy.
And others, there’s nothing but the hum of reality getting in between me and my imagination.
That’s when I write about the real… until it becomes so unreal, I’ve worked my way through it to be with my imagination once again.