When it’s time to
write, I pack my mental suitcase and embark on a journey to another time,
another place, another world—sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century.
Characters introduce me to their friends, family, lovers, and enemies. The
place sometimes reminds me of somewhere else—perhaps somewhere I lived in the
past. A place I dreamed about or passed along the way to somewhere else.
Perhaps a spot on a map I studied or a figment of my imagination.
The way to
discovery can be hard. Obstacles loom when and where you least expect them. I
wonder if I will make it—if writing The End
at the end of a story or novel is worth the struggle. A contrary protagonist often
insists on going her own way—we argue a lot. The antagonist isn’t the mean
character I intended; I find he’s managed to unearth my admiration for his
cleverness, his charm. A lot needs to change and I have to change it.
“I’ll help you,”
he whispers in my ear.
“Don’t listen,”
she says.
“Quiet. Both of
you. I’m the writer, I’m in charge and I have to do some serious thinking.” Do
I really believe I’m in charge?
I begin again.
Where are we? Where did the journey take me? Is the place rich or barren? The
people complacent or miserable or reasonably content? What period of history
are we in and how does it affect my characters, my people? Who are my
characters? Rich, poor, somewhere in the middle? Are they in want or do they
want more? What do they need? What do they seek? And why? Why? Why do they do
the good, the bad, the unintended? What are they looking for and what am I
looking for?
I take a long
walk and try to clear my head—no cobwebs allowed. I decide to read but all that
thinking had tired me; the book drops from my hand. The table-lamp is still on
when I wake the next morning. I reach for the pen and pad next to the bed and
begin writing.
Bests,
Elise
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