What does a writer do when he or she encounters unique specimens of the human race who breathe fire from their nostrils and use fear to make their victims succumb? While the rest of the world may run and hide, I get out my notepad and document the event for future reference. When the situation is particularly ugly, I think to myself, there's chapter twelve. It helps me stay calm under pressure.
I learned an important lesson from my first memoir – it's better to write fiction. I promised my loved ones I would never share stories about them unless permission is granted first. Even my adversaries are safe. Their likenesses, however, are irresistible. I have a whole stack of candid conniptions to develop in the dark room of my own mind. Fictional characters will be sprawling the pages of my future projects. I'm altering shoe and glove sizes to keep my antagonists from pursuing me in the courtroom. Should they attack, I already have a strong closing statement..."if the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit. And if the shoe fits, wear it. But sorry, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental." That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
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