The sun is starting to creep a little higher in the sky now as the day is waking up. Looking up towards the houses, you can see more activity and cars on the roads, everyone going about their morning routine. Although the sun is rising, there are clouds starting to build. They might look light and fluffy now, but that tinge of gray in them tells me they aren’t going to be as innocent as they seem.

Walking up the bank of grass on the sand dune towards my house, I take a breath. My life might be a mess, but this is my sanctuary. My little house on the beach where I can be me and then let my imagination run wild.

After coming through the gate to the yard, I lean down and take off the lead from Coco’s collar and give her a pat and hug her. She might drive me crazy, but I do love her and know she is the one who keeps me from going insane. Living on your own can be lonely. No matter how many characters are talking to me in my head, human interaction is what I crave. Or to be more accurate, I miss the feeling of being touched. Not even intimately, just the regular cuddle, holding hands, or even the stupid thump in the arm of a friend joking with you.

It’s the life I walked into back then, but some days I wonder why.

Coco’s wet nose gives me nudge on the back of my leg to remind me I promised breakfast, and instead I’m standing here on the porch daydreaming again.

“Okay, girl, let’s get you some food and I can get on with my workday.” Her wagging tail tells me she approves.

* * *

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my wet hair up into a ponytail, my mind is already in work mode. A plot twist has just come to me in the shower, and I want to get in front of the computer and get it down. It’s the strangest thing being an author. It’s my mind, and even I don’t understand how it works. The storylines that come to me happen at the strangest times. Not always in one go, either. Sometimes it builds slowly, and I know the ideas of what the book is about, then bam, it hits. The pivotal scene or the whole story starts playing my head. Or I see one character and their storyline, and the other is hiding from me.

No wonder I’m a loner. How do I expect people to understand me when I can’t even work out my thoughts some days?

One thing I know, though, is by the time I pull a book together, there are people out there in this world who can make sense of my jumble, and luckily for me, come back for more.