I love horror stories. Give me a creepy villain and an every-day Joe/Jane in a tension-fueled novel and I’ll let my imagination run wild. I love writing about frightened victims turning into brave warriors and battling the bad guy or evil creature. I love diving into another world.

But I hate it when the horror enters the real world. When demented men turn violent and attack innocents. I hate witnessing the pain and confusion on the faces of friends and neighbors of the slain on the television, knowing that I’ll never understand their suffering but crying right along with them. I hate when my chest strains when the photos of the beautiful little children and courageous adults flash across the screen.

The only – and I mean only – bright side to the recent terrors is that the United States and D.C. are finally having serious policy debates regarding gun control and mental health issues. I’m praying that the anger and disgust remains strong long enough to see the debates through to create positive changes.

I love reading and writing horror stories. I would like books to be the only place where evil dwells. It would be nice, huh?

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