My bathroom was done in the sixties and it's so beautiful and funky and magical. I haven't touched it since we moved in here a while ago, and I love everything about it- including the bathroom stall. It's this little inset hidey-hole so you can have privacy in your privacy.

I haven't been in there for nine days now. The good news is there are plenty of other loos to use. The bad news is that this little sabbatical is yet another example of my writer's head getting in the way of normal life.

I got a wasp, yo.

So nine days ago, I went in there, turned on the overhead light and heard zzzzzZZZZZZZ. Looking up, I saw this thing that was the size of the horse buzzing around INSIDE the inset light. I have no idea how the sonofab*tch got in there. It's sealed all the way around- did he break into it? Pull some V sh*t and get his sneak in? My thing is, why bother? No TV, no food, no friends- how you gonna watch the game? Lot of effort for not much reward IMHO.

Unless he was looking to permaminently displace me from my bathroom.

Then yeah, mission accomplished, you little sh*t.

See, nine days ago, I stared up at that mad b*astard and I was like, Jess, seriously, you got this. He's trapped in there. No way out. You're good.

And that was when the writer's head kicked in. Next thought I had was of me sitting on the throne and that stinging crazed one ounce dive bomber shooting out and going Uzi down the back of my neck and spine until it nailed me in the a&&. Specifically, I could feel the buzz at the short hairs at my nape, and the tickle of the wings under my clothes, and the electrical shock of the sting in my skin.

Thought two was of me in anaphalaxis in the ER getting paddled because my heart stopped when they EpiPen'd me.

Did I mention I'm not actually allergic to wasps?

Like any reasonable crazy person, I slammed the stall shut and ran around the bathroom like someone had stink bombed the place, fanning my hands around my head and scaring the dog. Then I ran out, shut the other two doors and panted like I had narrowly escaped from a dark alley.

This is all crazy, of course. The fear, the trembling, the thought racing. The trouble is, I spend my life living in parallel universes where I sense and feel and see everything with such clarity and specificity that I am WITH the people I write about. Thus, when I get a OHOHOHOH WASP thing, I ride it out until it's like I'm in that Mercedes with Trez and Selena and we're ***** ** ****** * ** ******* (edited out so no spoilers from The Shadows.) It becomes impossible for me not to be convinced that the wasp is down the back of my shirt every time I think of going in there, or even look at the outer door of the bathroom. And this happens in a thousand contexts in a million ways every single day of my life.

Yes, I'm in therapy.

And my husband in an angel on this earth.

And some of the best writers I know are really flipping crazy (I know I am. Crazy, that is.)

Anywho, next day, I decide I'm going to BBQ the wasp by turning on the light and letting it get good and hot in there. (Fry, mother*cker, firrrrrrrrrrrrre.) Hours later, I checked and didn't see anything buzzing in there- but I still closed the door and haven't been back there since. I know I'm going to have to get over this, but it's exhausting to fight the fear- especially when I have to finish The Bourbon Kings and then write the first book in my third series (which comes out December 2015!!!)

I got to get on this. I mean, really. The da*n thing has to be dead by now. Really.

*insert ZOMBIE WASP plotline here*

Crap. Now that I've admitted all this, I feel like an idiot. But I don't know, I'm more comfortable being honest about things. And the irony is that talking in front of a thousand readers is something I love and look forward to- but I've heard public speaking is the most come phobia? Man, I love that sh*t. But ask me to do ten rounds with my writer's head over a wasp in a ceiling light and I'm shakin' in my boots.

Wouldn't change a thing, though. The Brothers make it worth it ;). So yeah, shout out to all the writers who also deal with squirrely heads and scary hypotheticals and have to conquer baseless fears daily. We're in this together, people.

Write on!