Welcome to my brain...

It's a pretty scary place, all cluttered with lots of useless trivia and such, but if you follow me over here (please step over that pile of shite that represents memories of unhappy days -- don't get any on ya), you'll see the room I want to take you to.

See that softly glowing door in the back? The one guarded by the two large, muscular-looking statues, one Onyx, one Italian marble? That's the place. That's where the magic happens (at least for me it's magic). That's where my fantasies live. This room isn't the largest room in the place, but it's an incredibly important room to me, hence the guards. If people try to get past them, they raise such a ruckus, I swear people outside my head can hear it. Since the room isn't all that large, once it gets full, stuff tends to spill out.

Some fantasies come out in the form of vivid technicolor dreams. The guards let those go with a smile. Once these are played behind the screens that double as my eyes, they are archived just to the left of that glowing door, behind the purple-spotted one. They're cataloged in such a way that I can recall them easily. I can even dial up the ones I want to re-live. I see a giant book floating over the bed, indexed by character and topic, and I can just scan through and find the page I want. I've always been able to do that -- don't know why -- but I enjoy the hell out of being able to pick what I dream.

Other fantasies, unfortunately, get lost when they come out of the room. They're too young to venture out on their own, but they have learned how to sneak past my otherwise perfect guards. They're immature enough that sometimes they leave threads behind, and I can restart the tedious process of weaving them back together. Sometimes, they escape whole, never to be seen again. Sigh. No matter how hard the guards try, sometimes there's just no reasoning with the young.

The best fantasies, the mature ones, travel along that dimly lit corridor over there and travel down the chute to the heart. It's there that they percolate for a bit, and get infused with a little reality and a little soul (my soul is kept in the left ventricle of my heart, and my stories pass through there at some point) and then they're part of me; running rampant through my bloodstream like a drug.

They eventually make it back to the brain. If there's space left in the glowing room, they'll go back in there for a while, and see what else they can soak up. If, however, the fantasy room is still full? The brain wakes up my fingers, and fingers start their hundred-words-a-minute dance. Sometimes the dance is so fast and furious that I lose track of what they're doing. I've learned over the years not to interrupt them when they're dancing. They lose the rhythm, then it's like watching old Aunt Agnes do the Macarena. Painful. Scary. And you start to feel bad. I don't like that, so I don't bother the fingers when they're working. I tune out and let them do their thing.

As a result of this, there are some stories I've written, "Thank You" being one of them, that I re-read once in a while and say "When the hell did I write that?" When the magic room is full, and the fingers start their dance, the words just flow. I can't control it and frankly, I don't want to. Many of the Quick-Pic Fics on my site I have no recollection writing. I see them stored on the hard-drive, so I know they're mine, and as I read the words, I recognize my thoughts and desires, and I wonder how the hell someone snuck in past the guards, and I go and have a little chat with them.

People have e-mailed me and asked how can I write stories that they get drawn into (thanks, by the way, if that was you). All I can say is that the authors I "grew up" reading have a knack for letting me put myself into the main character's role. I feel the things that are happening to them. The emotions, the pain, the confusion, all of it -- occupy the green-doored room in my brain. There have been times when I get so pissed off at the characters in the stories that I have to put the book down, lock the green door, and stew. I'm moody for days, and the people in my life don't understand it, but they let me be.

That's what I try to do for you. I try to create characters that you can wrap your hearts around -- characters that make you care what happen to them. If I've been successful with even one of my readers, then it's all been worth it.

Well, that's the end of the tour. Please, watch your step, there is a lot of clutter around here. Don't want anybody getting hurt. If you step right this way, you can take a ride down the chute into my heart, where, gentle reader, you may recognize little bits of yourself. Don't be alarmed. It's just your comments and questions and e-mails steeping into the latest fantasy that is going through the infusion process.

When you're ready to leave, just close your eyes, and think of home. It worked for Dorothy, it will work for you.

Thanks for coming.

Bye-bye.