A writer's Thanksgiving prayer.

Dear Father, 

Thank you that the voices in my head aren't real.
I mean, I know they're REAL, but thank you that I can make them stop talking if I write down exactly what they say.

Thank you that I have friends who understand when I call them up and say "What kind of rope was best for hanging in 1892?"
Or, "how deep does a knife have to go to draw a whole whack of blood?"
Or even, "if I wanted to kill an entire family really fast, what is the best way?"

Thank you that they don't call my mom and have a chat about me.
Or the police.

Thank you that I know the best kinds of chemicals to use when I burn down a mansion.

Thank you that my heroes know how to ride horses and I don't have to explain spurs.

Thank you for Pinterest so I can post photos of cowboys and Native Americans and NOT get in trouble. Hello? Research! Duh.

Thank you for chaps.

Thank you for ridding society of corsets.

Thank you for the ability to ruin someone's life, slowly make it all better and then just when things look good, make it even worse.

Thank you for getting someone to invent chaps.
Oh, I said that already?
Huh. Chaps seem to be on my mind...

Thank you for fresh air, sunshine and wide open spaces.

Thank you for modern things like Pinterest so I can post pictures of chaps.

Thank you for crit partners who say things like "Um,  she already kissed him in the previous paragraph."
And who understand when I say "Well, she needs to kiss him again."
And they say "Oh, sounds good to me." 
And I say "Then the bad guy comes riding through the front door and shoots the chandelier down on top of them."
And they say "Perfect!! Then he can kidnap her and hide her in a cave!"

Thank you for imaginations, computers and notebooks.

Thank you for allowing us to be creative.
Thank you that we can offer it back to You.

Thank you for everything.