All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
Hey! Get away from my keyboard!
So rude. I hate it when other people’s characters sneak into my head when I’m writing.
*puts out Do Not Disturb sign*
I blame it on all the books I’ve read and the movies I’ve watched. The authors who created places, people and fantastical stories inspired me to think I could come up with something of my own. Occasionally, I have to stop and tell myself, “You know, that’s a bit of a trope. Do over.”
At age eight, I began experimenting with paragraph-long tales written in colored ink and hidden in a notebook. If it was a story about faeries, I added glitter. I wasn’t monogamous. I played around with all types of genres and became addicted.
When I got older, no matter what I wrote, my characters ran amuck. They waltzed in, spoke their lines and sighed with impatience as I typed their words onto the page. They developed characteristics I hadn’t considered.
When had my tough protagonist become such a pussy?
“That’s who I am, okay?” he said, clearly tired of putting up with me.
Maybe it’s a bit like God felt when Eve went for the apple.
Writing is like Willie Wonka’s world of pure imagination and limited by nothing except grammar rules and plot conundrums.
Like Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Some people are all about facts and reality, while those of us who write are about slipping into another dimension and turning ideas into stories.
Look, I’d love to talk more, but there’s a character that just came in and she’s got a lot on her mind.
Catch up with you in a good book somewhere.