Author has a very low tolerance for stupid, pop music, and alcohol.

I will warn you now - I have a habit of wandering from my stories, thanks
to a muse with attention issues. Maybe I'll finish them all. Maybe I'll make
toast. My bets are on toast.

I write stuff. Mostly somewhat disturbing, sometimes thoughtful, always
a bit too wordy.
I'm a wordslut. Get over it.

Author subsists on a diet of damned souls and starlight.
Sacrifices of chocolate and fine liquor, however, are appreciated.

I've been told that readers sometimes wonder what kind of spur or inspiration begins a particular story. I'm
curious of such things myself, so it stands to reason perhaps you are as well? Most of what you can find on
FFN by me are exercises in 'can I', and little more. Can I write political fiction, of a sort? Can I attempt
recognizable romance? Can I write a fairytale?

Sometimes, and more often, recently, it's something more... visceral.

I wonder sometimes what kind of world people wish for. Their perfect world. Contemplating that idea, I
always draw a very thoughtful blank, comparing what I've come to understand to be conventional and typical
comforts, and my own. Comparing what I value, versus what is commonly valued. I think on what has shaped
me, and what those landmarks were, and ponder their repercussions, echoing inside this idea that is me.
Would I go back and change the things that broke a fifteen year old, so many years ago? Would I find a way
to save my family? Would I have rewritten myself in less stark colors, saving innocence and other, kinder and
gentler emotions?

I think of that person that I could be now. Picture her face in my mind. Imagine what she would be, without me.
Without tragedy, without being soaked in vice until it becomes less an idea and more a way of existence; the
casual, savage disregard that finds laughter in dark places natural. Without the inhuman twist that eats away
at grace.

And then I wonder, what I would do if I met her, this perfected me.

Falsehood. There is nothing resembling contemplation there, only bone-deep, adrenaline-rich surety and
anticipation. In those moments, imagining myself leaning over the steaming, eviscerated, open flower that a
snapped and spread rib cage would resemble; blood running off my smile, eyes half shut in a euphoric haze from
it, hair matted down wet and clinging in tendrils to everything, leaving viscous trails... I know I would be at my
most masochistic. An absolute zenith of narcissism.

And I imagine I would be delicious.

I believe the saying goes... If you see the Buddha, kill the Buddha.

...I wonder, sometimes, if people are curious what I'm thinking, when I begin a story...

I don't know how a lot of other authors figure out what they want to write. If it's dissatisfaction with canon,
appreciation of it, or the fan-works that themselves rise in happy mimicry. What motivates one to take a universe,
and say, "I can do this better?" Oh dear Lucifer, you were the first. Such broken, childish little gods we authors are.

I am a proud, tidy monster. Atrocity, wrapped in shining, golden hair, mismatched eyes, and an empty smile set
in a face of porcelain. I offer here the brief afterimages of those dreams, that I dream, painted in those colors I was
stained in growing into the person I became. They are not kind on humane eyes.

That, I suppose, is a warning. I am not sure, but it has that feeling to it, does it not?