Fiction writers, it seems certain, are blessed (cursed?) with unusually active imaginations. This is a good thing, considering what we do. But sometimes…sometimes it’s a bit of a burden.

Take, for example, what my doctor calls my medical student’s syndrome. “Kristan, you’re such an idiot,” he’ll say fondly as I detail my symptoms. “Sounds like you drank too much coffee to me.” Still, I can’t seem to stop the runaway train of doom. Freckle? I have skin cancer. Headache? Brain tumor. I can already envision the creepy black blob on my MRI. Foot cramp? Clearly I have Lou Gehrig’s disease. He is, after all, my favorite baseball player of all time! How ironic that I (probably) have his disease! No, I’m positive it’s ALS, not just a foot cramp resulting from six hours in those trashy shoes of mine…the four-inch heeled gray suede pumps with the flower on the toe (so cute!). Immediately, I envision myself at Yankee Stadium, giving my version of the Luckiest Man speech…tears start leaking as I picture my poor babies, bidding farewell to their dear mama. What will happen to Digger, my beloved dog? Will he crawl into my casket the way he climbs into the trunk of my car when I’m going to the airport? I should mention this to McIrish, just to make sure our dog isn’t buried alive…

Another time it really sucks to have an imagination is while swimming in the ocean. Peter Benchley, Steven Spielberg—damn you! Sebastian Junger, you’re not off the hook, either, young man. Rogue waves, dorsal fins…oh, wait, I can’t forget Jules Verne, because even if I don’t see a dorsal fin or a 100-foot tower of water, there may well be a giant squid about to grab my leg. Thanks, boys. Thanks for ruining the beach for me forevermore.

As a firefighter’s wife, I’m quite used to picturing McIrish’s death…if he’s twenty minutes late getting home, I’ve already lived through an imaginary visit from his chief and lieutenant bearing the bad news. “Hi, sweetie,” I’ll say when he inevitably comes through the door. “Sorry there’s no dinner, I was writing your eulogy. Feel like cooking?” It’s our norm.

Disaster preparation is another forté of mine, since I have already planned for tidal waves (rare in my landlocked town)…terrorist attacks (sure, the only thing worth attacking in our town is the ice cream stand, but I have a hidey hole prepared for the four of us just in case)…alien invasion (okay, that one’s trickier, since I’m not sure if they’ll be vanquished by a glass of water, like they were in Signs, or if I need to write a computer virus, like they did in Independence Day, but I have both, just in case). Oh, let’s see what else…I have practiced taking the kids down cellar in case of tornado (again…rare in Connecticut, but you never know). I’ve read up on performing an emergency tracheotomy with a sharp knife and a straw (don’t laugh, it’s doable). When the kids were tiny, I used to play a game where I was a grizzly bear and they had to play dead as I pawed and sniffed them. You know. Just in case.

Listen. It’s not just me…my characters do this stuff, too. In fact, Callie from All I Ever Wanted envisions disaster during a certain notable scene in her bathroom. So go ahead—tell me when you’ve imagined a ridiculously impossible scenario but scared yourself silly nonetheless. Let me know I’m not alone!