Writing a dark paranormal has consequences.
I’m several chapters into the second in the Amazon series. The first was dark. This one is darker. The main villian is a pseudo-vampire who sucks the life force out of people to stay alive. I suppose I should have known writing something so horrifying would impact me in other ways.
I had several nightmares last night. My own pseudo-vampire wasn’t chasing me around. No, my stalker was Jason Vorhees from the Friday the 13th movies. One of the dreams was so vivid, I knew when I came awake, and I was too afraid to open my eyes. I was convinced I’d see that stupid hockey goalie mask glaring down at me.
For pity’s sake, I should be old enough to be able to brush aside nightmares! But I’ll admit to grabbing my sleeping husband’s arm and dragging it across my waist so he would snuggle up against me. His touch soothed me, and I was finally able to get back to sleep. The last dream I had before waking up for good was about getting lost in Baltimore. 
Go figure.
I have plans to write two more of these stories, with each book getting a tad more frightening. By the time I get to the fourth, I’ll have dark circles under my eyes and be living on caffeine to stay awake. I guess I should realize writing requires sacrifice.
Why can’t I dream about Gerard Butler instead?