Don'tcha Just Hate It? by Betsy Ashton

Since I was a child, I was taught that hating people was wrong. I learned that lesson well. I try not to hate anyone. When I feel the negative vibes creeping in, I go to my special place and face the hatred demon. Then I banish it.

That said, I hate many things. I hate not being a kid again. My first childhood was about what most of us experience. I had no control over what happened, so it was schizophrenic. Some parts were good; some

not. My second childhood, on the other hand, is all mine. I can do with it as I wish. I can have great conversations with my imaginary friends. I'm a writer, after all. I must have imaginary friends. I can let them take over and do things I dream of doing. I can wait for a snow storm to make snow angels, only to miss out on the snow and have to make an asphalt angel.

I can listen to one of my favorite imaginary friends, Mad Max, who just happens to be the protagonist of Mad Max Unintended Consequences. She likes being the goofy mad, not the angry mad, so I let her. As if I had any control over what she does. In the second Mad Max book, she hula-hoops in Walmart, wears clown makeup at dinner one night and dons blinking red pompoms on her head when she goes to an airport. I think I'll wear a red clown nose to one of the Navy games next year.

I hate people telling me I can't do something. True, I don't think I'll skydive, not because of age or infirmity, but because I am piss-scared of heights. I did ride a mule to the bottom of the Grand Canyon when I was 11, but I didn't look down. I'd kinda like to do that again.

I hate carrots. Truly, down deep inside, hate carrots. I will eat them in stews and soups, but eat a Bugs Bunny carrot? Not touching my lips. Uh huh. No way, no how. My vegetarian friends criticize me for eating meat, chicken and fish. They can't counter my argument that carrots may have souls. Far be it from me to deny a carrot its soul.

I hate the doubters who rolled their eyes when I said I was going to be a published writer. "Yeah, sure," was what I heard whispered behind my back. "Good luck," to my face. Well, I am a published writer. I did find an agent at Blue Ridge Literary Agency, who sold Max 1 to an smaller, up-and-coming publisher, Koehler Books. Together, we produced a good novel with a wonderful cover, top quality paper and a ready fan base

who wanted to buy the book as soon as it came out.

And now for my snow angel. We finally got enough to make an angel. I can't tell you how much fun it was to be six again, even for a minute or two, even with a snow-wet butt afterwards.

Don'tcha just hate missing out on these moments?

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Betsy Ashton's novel, Mad Max Unintended Consequences, is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Betsy is available to talk with book clubs near and far.