I used to be a rather normal woman. (I can hear my friends snorting now. Shaddup!) Really, I was more normal than not. I mothered the children, I tended my garden, I volunteered at the library and Meals on Wheels. Except for my odd habit of writing things up in a small journal for no apparent reason, I was a useful, contributing member of society.
Then came the Internet.
I had found the outlet for my passion, the means to a dream, the food for an obsession. (That last part was from my husband who was reading over my shoulder. Swatting him away)
I am now a part time (HA) writer. Make that full time. We all know it's true. Now I sit in front of the computer and howl in front of a glowing screen. Sometimes I really am laughing, other times just howling. I have been known to sit for hours muttering about this and that, grinding my teeth, marking things in one of many little notebooks. Sometimes I don't shower. Sometimes I don't get dressed for hours. I do this weird thing with my right hand where I will be perfectly fine for an hour or so and then, cursing, will shake my hand and arm wildly around my head for several minutes and flex my fingers uncontrollablly.
My children think I have lost my mind. They bring new friends home and whisper, "Don't mind the woman in the corner... she's on Deadline!"
"Is that a new drug?" they whisper back, a little afraid.
"Yes," my children say, nodding wisely. "You don't want to interrupt her. Especially with the words, I'm hungry."
"What happens then?" the newcomber asks, fascinated.
"She turns, her head opens up and she screams 'FEED YOURSELF,' blowing back your hair with the fiery winds from hell."
(My children have the gift of story telling too)