In 2007, an aspiring horror novelist was arrested on suspision of murder. Police found portions of his girlfriend all over his house, and a manuscript entitled, “Cannibalistic Instincts.”

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not that dedicated in my research. If my character is going to rob a bank, I’ll stick to watching movies like Swordfish. I’m pretty proud of my ability to keep my diabolical plots where they belong: in fiction.

Unfortunately, I’m not so proud of myself when misfortune strikes those around me. If you show up on my doorstep, bleeding, I’ll pass out the band-aids and the comfort, along with a few questions.

“Stabbed yourself did you? With what? How bad does it hurt? What does it hurt like? Burning? Throbbing? Can you feel the flesh sliding around? What does that feel like? No don’t just say it hurts, tell me in detail. Oh, yeah. Doctor. Let me get my notebook–I mean the phone. Let me get my phone.”

I can’t be the only one who hugs a friend while simultaneously pondering how to put his/her emotional torment into word form. Time to fess up. Do you do it too?