Smoked Oysters and Malice

It's simple enough.

Writers are a special type of mad. We engage in a pursuit that is best practiced singularly. Oh, we love coffee shops. We love people. We love to be around people, ignore them, and construct our imaginary worlds on paper where we are Gods.

We're pathological liars if we're any good at fiction. We have to be able to construct and pursue hugely complicated lies over multiple sessions. We practice loading the lie world into our brains, spinning it around, and imagining the events therein quite differently.

Some of us kill in our works. Sometimes we kill softly (The body was lying on the living room floor as Jim entered from the garage.) Sometimes we kill violently. (The .45 spat out a lead ball then cleared its throat one more time for good measure. Beanie fell against the wall dead but unblinking.)

Writing itself is eating oysters and onions in the cafeteria and wishing someone would sit by us, do the same, and not be a freak.

I'm having smoked oysters for dinner. Then, I'm writing.