Any Muggle walking into the monthly meetings of the writer’s group I attend would probably be both lost and frightened.
In the last six months or so, we have:
Spent a whole meeting plotting out a small town that we decided was from Supernatural, so we put in a graveyard and a haunted meat-packing plant and an occult shop and the school was right across the road from the graveyard which was across the road from the meat-packing plant and we were making production-line jokes.
Had a half-hour conversation on the quality of leather and vellum produced from human skin, including places human skin can be obtained.
Discussed at length good hiding places for bodies and varying means of disposal.
Debated the linear nature of time and the narrative.
More stuff I can’t remember right now but probably just as weird.
If you’ve talked about writing in public, you’ve probably gotten that look. The ‘oh God, what are you SAYING’ look, after which you realize you were just talking about summoning demons and why Dean and Cas should do it at their wedding while you were standing in line at Starbucks. (I have not actually done this, but only because I’m behind on Supernatural and haven’t met Cas yet) I have, however, gotten the Are You A Serial Killer look after the following:
1) Pointing out of the window on a train and announcing excitedly that that’s my favourite place for potentially hiding a body.
2) Shouting into the phone that I will murder my spouse like I murdered (fictional character whose name escapes me) in the middle of the Queen Street Mall.
3) Discussing the relative ethics of forcing Sansa to marry a man twice her age on the bus.
4) Probably lots of other times, look, you know about me and my memory.
At least when discussing Sansa there was a slim hope that some of the people on the bus would realize that I was talking about a fictional character, not the little girl in the pram beside me. When you’re talking about your own work – especially hiding the bodies – it’s tempting to just walk around holding up a Road-Runner style sign that says ‘not a murderer, just a writer’ or some such thing. Because you want to share your brilliant idea about the gravel piles with your writer friends, but if the rail-cops hear you extolling the virtues of Roma St Station as a body-hiding spot they may have some stern questions.