I was glad I was a writer today. Or am a writer. Today, instead of dealing with the latest same ol’, same ol’ ONLY WORSE news of COVID 19, I got to do a car chase over Highway 92, wind up at Pellegrino’s Christmas Tree Farm (made-up) with Lee and Gurn (my protagonist and her hubby), who manage to sabotage the getaway helicopter of the villains. And remember, because I write cozies, there may be dastardly deeds afoot and villainy abounding, but things are always set right in the end.

Yes, it may have only been in my mind but it was very real to me at the time. I zipped over 92, heading west with the early morning sun coming up on a glorious day in a glorious part of the world. Ah, the joys of the light-hearted mystery and the writing of them. And, of course, I had to do research on fuel for a helicopter (there are two kinds, depending on the engine), if the windshield could be penetrated by a bullet (yes), and how those blades that go round and round and take it up and away do it (too detailed to mention). Today my life was in the building, maintenance, and aerodynamics of a helicopter.

Of course, I would have to come back to reality now and then to feed the cat, hubby, make the bed, disinfect anything that came into the house, go for a short walk and make dinner. But still, parts of my day were absolutely marvelous. I may be a crazy writer, but I LOVE what I do for a living. Even when I don’t make much of a living at it. Which comes and goes like the tide.

But then, I never became a writer because of the money. It was the lure of things like racing over 92 chasing the bad guys and winning the day at a Christmas Tree farm. You just can’t get jobs like that every day, no matter what the pay.