I see dead people…all the time.
~The Sixth Sense 1999

Haley Joel Osment sees dead people.

I hear voices.

The biggest difference is you paid $8 to hear him say it ($10 for those of you in California), and I’d tell you the same basic thing for free if I could actually get a word in edgewise.

Come to think of it, I can’t think of a time when there aren’t voices all around me, whispering in my ear.

No, I’m not still hanging on to my imaginary friend from childhood (he moved out of my closet about thirty years ago—last I heard he’s got a wife and three kids now).

And no, I’m not a schizophrenic (not according to my last stint in iso anyway).

What I am is a writer.

At least that’s what my mom tells everyone.

It’s probably a good thing I hear voices. It helps me get in touch with my characters. And, in theory, if I see them as real people (worthy of a conversation or a slaying if necessary—I do, after all, write mysteries), then hopefully my readers will too. Sounds good, huh?

It is. Most of the time. Like when I’m sitting in my office working on my latest project and no one else is home. Or when I’m in the shower and my, ahem, conversations aren’t audible over the sound of running water.

Unfortunately, I don’t always have control over the voices. Which, translated, means they rear their pretty little heads in the mall, at the coffee shop, at parties, in the car with my kids, and, occasionally, in church (insert sound of my late grandmother rolling in her grave).

My kids, they don’t even ask anymore. They just seem to take my oddities in stride. But give ’em time, they’re still young. I’m sure, by the time my oldest is a teenager, things will be quite different. I will bring embarrassment-by-parents to a whole new level.

My mom, she doesn’t mention the voices to any of her friends. It’s one of those dirty little family secrets that is best left under the carpet. I guess I can’t blame her. News of a schizophrenic-like daughter would run through the blue-hair crowd in no time flat. Besides, “author” has a much better ring than “nutcase” when comparing offspring stories.

Which brings me to my non-writer friends. I haven’t had breast implants (though, I probably should) or a nose job or a pit stop through rehab. But I’m fairly certain I’m discussed out of earshot anyway. Think about it… A thirty-something who routinely mutters “shut up” under her breath is simply too good to pass up when leaning over the backyard fence swapping the latest tidbits (but that’s okay, it helps my victim list grow).

I like my voices. They keep me company. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They make me bang my head against the wall (sometimes, quite literally). But there’s something oddly comforting in knowing they’re always there.

Because as long as they keep talking, I’ll keep telling their stories.

I can’t imagine my life without stories. My computer, my imagination, and yeah, my voices, are what keep me sane. They give me a place to work through the tough patches in life—sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously.

It’s when the voices disappear that I’ll worry.

~Laura

**I originally wrote this article for the May/June 2006 issue of Crimespree Magazine. Jon Jordon, Crimespree editor, graciously agreed to let me share this with my blog readers. Thanks, Jon!