I live dangerously. That's right, i said it and I ain't afraid to live it. Here's an example, try not to be intimidated by my "living on the edge"...erm, edge. I'm in the final stages of finishing the book Ghoul, which I've written for my daughter and her closest friends as a graduation gift. One of the "co-stars" is a girl named Edie. She shoots guns, is nationally ranked, and received a sizable scholarship to attend a Florida college and shoot for them. She had a contest (is that the right word? Tournament? Tourney? I don't know what they label shooting competitions) at a range not far from our cabin in middle Wisconsin. So she wouldn't have to make the three-hour drive early on a Saturday to show up by 8am, we invited her to come up Friday. We were up there anyway and had the space, so it was no big deal. She's very close to my daughter, thus my wife could sit around and chat with her. Here's where my rebel ways come into play. The next morning when she came out into the kitchen, I was already deep into edits, book open on the left, notebook with random jottings on the right, laptop fired up with the manuscript filling the screen. While Edie sat a couple stools down at the center island, I had a story featuring her open for the world to see. She could have looked over at any moment, seen her name, and asked what was up. What. Was. Up. HOW WILD IS THAT? Told you I'm edgy. At one point I even hovered the cursor over her name. My nerves were nearly shot after ten minutes of her chatting and me typing. I felt just like that guy who attempted to cross the Grand Canyon on a high wire. Well, there's been several of them I think, so not the ones that fell. But the thrill of being so close to caught. For all you sedentary folks who succumb to status quo, it's a rush. You should really experience. Now I have to one-up this, keep pushing the envelope. I think I'll bring thirteen items into the twelve item limit lane at our grocery store. They can't stop me.