Ghoul says, “I can’t believe I ate the whole cemetery”
If I’m really writing, I don’t tend to snack. If I’m stuck or procrastinating, I can graze through my fridge like a herd of deer through a prize garden.
It’s all about unloading nervous energy. Crunchy is good. Virtuous is better. Over the years, I’ve learned to stock up on veggie sticks and ban Succulent Evil at the front door, because dietary judgment fails in the face of an artistic crisis. Fortunately, the nearest junk food emporium is a fifteen-minute walk away. Sloth wins out over the appeal of a bag of chips.
I was contemplating this blog and kept bumping up against one very compelling question. It’s one thing to be a human author with a bad case of the munchies, but what about my characters?
Pizza place: So you want the pizza delivered. What toppings would you like?
Vampire: Forget the pizza. Just send the driver.
With vamps, one could go on and on in a similar, uh, vein, and it would lead nowhere good.
I’ve always wondered about the urban werewolf. Real wolves are built for speed – long legged and slim – in order to chase down their dinner. Would it be hard for citified werewolves to maintain that so-svelt physique? Sure, he might have to run a bit to catch his nightly jogger, but there’s prey a-plenty in most city parks. After a few years of easy pickings, would the Wolfman have to spend hours on the treadmill like everyone else? What happens if you’re a roly-poly werewolf? Do the Hellhounds laugh and call you names?
Demons stumped me. What do they look for when they stand with the fridge door open? A box of Soul Snax? A bowl of Hot as Hellfire Fudgy Brimstone Ripple?
Mom demon: Who took the last of the lava and put the empty container back?
Little sister demon: Azazael drank it straight from the carton!
Azazael: Quit tattling, or I’ll take away your Inquisitor Barbie.
Mom demon: Just wait till your sire gets home.
How about the Demon Celebrity Chef cooking show? A bit of flame and sulphur could put a whole new spin on the old “Bam!” routine.
Uh, hold that thought. As I write this, my stomach is telling me it’s lunchtime. Salad with a few Moroccan olives and feta. Nice, simple, and cheerfully dull. Outside of the occasional illicit BLT, I’m vegetarian. Which is why paranormal romance is only in fiction. It’s hard enough agreeing on a restaurant when you’re with another human.
Werewolf: Honey, I’m home, what’s for dinner? Oh, no, mailman again?