Because I'm a Wuss in Real Life

I've always loved to read books full of adventure. Usually, the heroine is facing imminent danger and the hero comes to rescue her - maybe on a gallant steed, maybe in a really cool Camaro, but come he does and the day is saved.

I also like reading books where the female characters can really kick some tush - they aren't afraid of getting their hands dirty, trekking through muddy fields or climbing rugged mountains, and then firing a few rounds from their semi-automatic and shooting the bad guys, if need be.

I always wanted to be a gal like that. I always wanted to take a trip to some far off destination where I get mixed up in some international intrigue and this sexy spy guy and I work together to catch the bad guys. And of course, I would be one of those gals who wouldn't complain that all the running has given her blisters, that she is tired from staying up for 24 hours straight, or that she doesn't know the first thing about how to shoot a gun. Nope, not me. I would be the kick-butt chick.

In some ways, I think reading all these books throughout my life has given me a rather irrational view of what "adventure" is really like. More likely than not, if I landed in a situation like I described above, I'd be hunkering beneath some bed, terrified for my life, or running to the nearest police station. And more likely than not, the "sexy spy guy" would probably turn out to be an aging Cold War relic whose reflexes aren't what they used to be.

Sometimes, I get bored with my mundane existence and I start to think, "I want to have those adventures." But then I realize that I am a wuss in real life. I am not the kick-butt heroine. I have only shot a gun a handful of times and was not very good at it. I also complain a lot about blisters if I get them, and I also hate getting dirty. If I go for more than 24 hours without sleep, you will see a bear the likes of which no grizzly has ever come close to personifying. I like to sleep on a bed at night, I like my water from a tap, and I definitely like indoor toilet facilities. Globe-trotting or spending the night in an abandoned farmhouse or hiding in a dark, cold cave would not be my thing. At. All.

I am happiest in my home, reading my books, writing my novels, taking naps, playing Nintendo and Monopoly with my daughter, feeding the ducks, attending the symphony, eating my chocolate, surfing the Internet, and generally being comfortable.

I think I shall stop wishing for those particular adventures to befall me and instead start writing those particular adventures. And in those books, the heroine will be sassy and plucky and be able to survive on crusts of bread and sleep on a bed of rocks...while I stay in my pajama pants, dark chocolate by my side, fire in the fireplace, cat sleeping on my leg, and type out my heroine's dastardly deeds from the comfort of my couch.