If a coward dies a thousand deaths, and a brave one dies but one, then I have died at least a million times.

I live my life cowering (at least in the corners of my mind.) Okay, I may appear bold to some—haven’t I always stood up for my children, for other people’s children? Don’t I stand up to street toughs? Didn’t I work with criminals for many years?

Certainly.

But inside, like so many, I am the dying coward. I die when faced with driving on the highway. I die when facing displeasure, dislike, and disappointment from anyone. Yes, anyone. Who cares what the shrinkish reasons, how it’s braided from my past, I still drag my quaking behind me like Marley’s ghost hauls his chains.

In place of whistling a happy tune, writing became my obsession. With a story, with a good whopping dose of fiction I can take the most fearful and make it worse. The magic of ‘what if’ is my passion. Yes, I am afraid of murder. Murder in the street. Murder in the home.

It once came close to happening, though it didn’t. However, for me, it doesn’t work to be the brave one, dying but once. I like to relive it over and over and over. What if it had happened? What if it happened in front of me? What if I got stabbed? What if my entire family died?????

So I chew up my fear and cowardice on paper. Thus, I now live my life. One quiet disaster at a time. On paper. And live my live looking plucky.