I open my closet. It’s a sea of black clothing. Black pants. Black tops. Black skirts. Black dresses. Even black jeans. I wonder what in the hell I’m doing wearing black all the time. I know I’m a writer, and writers love to wear black, but this is getting absurd. I have to fight to believe that my personality is not reflected in the drab colors and style of the clothes I wear. But it’s always black. Gloom. Doom. Snape-like. Johnny Cash-ish. Elphaba without the green face. I’m drowning in a vortex of black. And then a fictional character enters my world and I no longer want to wear black.…