If someone were to listen to an audio track of the inside of my brain, he might hear scenes from my day scripted carefully like a page out of a novel he picked off the shelf at the library.
"She folded the dishcloth and slung it over the faucet with an unnecessary thump."
"Grimacing, she wadded up the stinky diaper and threw it into the trash, watching the lid fall shut with a satisfying thud."
"The boy glared in defiance at his mother and shook his head. 'Oh yes, you will, young man,' she snapped. 'You will eat every single green bean or there will be no dessert. Do I make myself perfectly clear?'"
"She approached the spider, carefully, methodically, her sandal in her hand. Ignoring the racing of her heart, she looked that spider in all four hideous eyes and brought the shoe down with a bang. Victory. The gasps of her children were thanks enough. Mommy was the hero of yet another day."
"Overwhelming drowsiness closed in. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but slowly, the lids slid shut. 'Just... one... more... word...' she thought as her fingers relaxed on the keyboard."
'Max and Ruby's tinny theme song played on the TV as she stole carefully into the kitchen, unwilling to distract the three wide-eyed children who stared at the screen. She reached the 9x13 pan sitting on the counter and ever so quietly peeled back the Saran wrap. The brownies lay inside, moist, delicious, brimming with chocolate. She stealthily slid a spatula under not one, but two, pieces and hightailed it to her closet, closing the door behind her to eat in peace.'
Since the publication of my second book, I've had three separate people comment to me that they thought my brain must be very interesting (and by interesting, I'm sure they meant: whacked out, totally missing a few screws, lights-on-nobody-home, craziness-lives-here kind of place).
Yep. I admit it. I turn my life into a novel with my own inner narration.
Granted, my life's not much of a thriller novel, but my day-to-day doings gives me inspiration.