Look into my eyes

I want them to shoot death rays.

Awesome AND useful! XD

10 things that make me happy!

Typewriters
I love the sound of the keys and the nostalgic thrill. I don't own a typewriter now, but I will soon...

Call of Duty
Treyarch. Nazi Zombies. Sgt. Reznov.

...Really, do I need a reason?

Two Door Cinema Club
They're my favorite band because of their easy-going Caribbean vibe and their down-to-earth charm. They're adorable!

Hans Zimmer
He doesn't simply create a musical score. He takes characters and translates them into music. He gets at the very essence of a person and transforms them into sound. Is that not a rare and beautiful talent?

Pirates of the Caribbean
Again, do I need a reason? XD

I love Jack Sparrow, but all the reasons I love POTC are related to the bad guys. Mercer, Davy Jones, and Cutler Beckett are all my favorite characters. I've always been fascinated by evil...and these characters are ample inspiration.

NaNoWriMo
One month. 50,000 words. Just crazy enough to work.

Rainy days
Who needs sunlight?

The internet
The ultimate time-waster! XD

Blogging
My blog is my only form of journaling, so I know it will be neat to look back on my posts five, ten, and twenty years from now. Also, I like reading my own words, and blogging is a relatively painless way to do that.

Nightmares
I love being scared, and nightmares are perfect for story ideas. Some of my best work is derived from nightmares I've had.

In fact, my next novel is called "Nightmare House!"

In ten years, in an older building somewhere in New York City, is a studio apartment. A roll-top desk sits directly across from the door, crowding out everything else in the tiny space. Everything in the room seems to shy away from it. The bed plasters itself against the wall as though the touch of the desk is poisonous, and the kitchen table with seating for one hides itself in the farthest corner of the room. But the desk is not imposing or mean in any way—it invites the viewer to run a hand down its well-oiled and softly gleaming exterior, to settle into the cushioned chair that already bears the imprint of a dedicated occupant. On the desk sits both a fire-engine red typewriter and a silver netbook, the netbook open onto a list of plot notes, the typewriter paused halfway down a page. A stack of crisp papers occupies the only space left on the desk, and binders litter the floor around the feet of the chair. The walls and floor of this small apartment are bare; the owner adheres to a spartan sense of simplicity that is nevertheless marred by the mess around the desk. On the table is an enticingly thick envelope from HarperCollins and a single piece of paper with a few notes: "Call Mom." "Call Suzanne for follow-up." "Schedule book signing." It is a living space that seems to exist solely for the purpose of writing.