It’s not really surprising that I love Halloween.  Like all fiction writers, I spend my days making up stories of people who don’t exist.  (Which, for some reason, society lets us get away with.) But it’s more than that.  My books turn out, again and again and in many different contexts, to be about people pretending to be other people.  I don’t know why identity fascinates me so much, and, frankly, I don’t really care.  But on Halloween, I don’t have to limit my weird identity fixation to paper. 

My husband and I throw a big Halloween party every year.  And it’s funny: when it comes to dressing up, no one is neutral.  Year after year, some people find excuses not to come because they hate the whole costume thing.  (Surely it’s not because they don’t like me?)  Far more start talking about the party in January and haunting eBay for the perfect costume by June.  Maybe writers don’t have a monopoly on identity issues?

Enough text.  Heeeeeere’s Britney ….