Last Wednesday, we sat at the breakfast table at 07.10 a.m. and discussed my mystery novel in progress. I told my husband and daughter that I'm planning to strangle the victim with a pair of nylons.
My husband weighed his head from side to side. "I doubt nylons would work," he said.
"Of course they would." I frowned at him.
Neither of us, of course, have any clue what we're talking about, but that doesn't stop us from taking a strong view and clinging to it.
"The material is way too fragile." My husband buttered his toast.
"Not at all," I refilled my tea mug. "If bundled together, it stretches out and becomes extremely resistant."
My daughter bit into her bread and managed to smear a dollop of chocolate spread on her nose. "You'd have to test it," she said.
I laughed. "No way. I don't want to lose either of you."
My daughter brightened. "We could try it on a teddy-bear."
It was at this point that I realized how much being an author had changed my life.
How boring our conversations used to be, how predictable. Now, my stories catapult me into areas I've never thought about. They make me explore things I did not know existed, all in the quest of getting it right. I'm off to strangle a teddy-bear now, but do tell me what crazy things you've done for your stories to "make it real" . . .