True story to share...

Truth? I don't consider myself a prissy woman. You want examples? Well...My most comfortable shoes would have to be my worn out hiking boots. My favorite weekend shirt? The denim button-up I stole from my husband.

Not convinced? No problem!

I've walked through a sloppy pig lot to water and feed. The water and feed weren't the hard part. Nope, the hard part was standing on one leg trying to figure out what to do once you lost a boot in the muck.

I've fed cows and milked them. Not to mention cleaning the barn after the cows vacated and I've watched dozens of calves being born.

The fondest memories I have of my childhood would be getting filthy making mud pies, walking in the rain down to the creek or even catching up with my Dad while wearing his rubber boots so we could (and I use the term "we" loosely) work on the swather. Or tractor. Or baler. Or....(this could go on forever).

But when we opened up the fan on our furnace today and found what's pictured below...well I think I'm going to re-think being prissy. Where the hell is my husband when I need him? Gone! Out of the country even. The email I sent him went a little something like this...

"So we found the problem with the furnace. The pictures attached are of the part that came out. (I didn't have time to set the date on the camera BTW.) Sounds like we might need a new one. Check out the photos and tell me what you think."

And how do you think the man responded?

"Wow. Cool."

Wow? Cool? I think for Christmas he must want a giant fly swatter to go with the lawn chair duct taped to the roof.

I have my knife between my teeth,

my .45 at my hip and my pencil at the ready. I am ready for battle.

A few words is all it takes. A few words to spark my imagination to hurt, lie, cheat, and strangle my character's dreams and love. It must be done this torture. It must be accomplished in the best way possible in order for the book to be worth reading.

Afterall, who would read a book with no opposition? And without it is there then a reason to continue. Their characters might as well just lay down and die. Erased from existence by poor planning on the part of the author. The words I write mean nothing. They are just black spots of the correct number and spaces making them seem like sentences when in fact they are nothing more than whips of thought. Nothing more than odd thoughts of a writer who has less idea of how to torture her characters and many more ways to torture herself. All she must do is ask for an opinion of those thoughts. That is where the real torture begins.