A confession …

I'm an addict.

I come home from work, and I turn on the computer.

Sometimes I'm looking for something sweet. Often I'm looking for something slashy. Involving a werewolf and a big, black dog. Or something het involving a mysterious, sarcastic professor with an evil tattoo.

It's free. Some of it is good. And I've shirked so many responsiblities in its pursuit that it's beginning to be unhealthy.

I'm beginning to refer to my friends by their fanfic-summary initials: BF/LF, GA/MJ, etc.

And now, I've started to manufacture it.

Twenty pages. Or so. Of something I'll never own or be able to publish. Because the characters belong to someone else.

Involving a werewolf; a big, black dog; a mysterious, sarcastic professor with an evil tattoo and a pink-haired punk.

And I'm learning something.

I'm learning how this elusive thing called plot works, and about narrative consistency and that it's hard work to write, but more fun than I've had in a long time.

And there are the ghosts of characters coming together (from bits of friends, lovers and enemies) for — someday — something of my own.