I write odd stuff. And I do odd research for it. For instance, you should see the collection of links in my Favorites. Here's one. Here's another. And another. (Man, I covet that gun--the military version with the bigger clip.*) Yesterday I went to the range to shoot. I only shot a revolver--ran out of time and had to head to the Motocross Nationals. But I saw an M1, which I've written about, and my hubbin has a semi-auto pistol, so I can shoot that any time.
At five foot nuthin' and fairly girly looking, when people learn I write dark, violent speculative fiction, they think I'm weird, I guess. Maybe not as weird as this women's fiction writer, but weird enough.
You should have seen them yesterday when I knew that the longest sniper hit in history was recorded in Afghanistan by a Canadian. Bout a mile and a half. I got that bit wrong--can't keep numbers in my head. And someone turned to me and said, "Wh...why do you know that? How do you know that?"
I just shrugged and threw out some bravado. (While cringing inside because the whole class was looking at me, including the extremely adorable instructor.) "I know all sorts of things."
Why violence? Why guns and mayhem and a sprinkling of various faiths? I suppose I'm trying to find the answer to the big What and Why. A million words later, I'm afraid I'm no closer.
One time my mom said "Why don't you write English mysteries? Or write about being a mom?" Really. Write about being a mom? Yawn. I mean, really. That's my fuckin' day job. I do love English mysteries and count Elizabeth George among my favorite authors. I have thought about writing a mystery. But the sleuth I'm percolating might give you pause. I don't even know if I could write it. There isn't another one like it out there.
Of course, if I told ya, then I'd have to kill ya.
*Oh, and they're called magazines, not clips, dumb ass!