A woman entered the room one day as I was sitting, waiting for a talk to begin. It all seemed very natural, very mundane probably to everyone. Except me. You see, I have a writer's brain and as such, my thoughts run off wild in various directions all aimed at the plot of the next book. For me, the woman quietly entering the room was a paid assassin, just given the name of the next victim and slipped into the room to survey the potential target, staying just long enough to get needed details, then retreat. See what I mean. Plots on steroids, that's me. I have never, ever had a problem coming up with plots, plot twists, twist at the end or flipping the whole book. Writer's brain. No cure. I don't want one. For everyone else, a ride in an elevator to the tenth floor is just that. A ride to the tenth floor. For me, writer's brain takes over. And the ride is really about a guy with a gun jammed into his back with a thirty second elevator ride to determine what move to make when the elevator door opens. I have to stop now and go to the store. No telling what will happen there.