I wrote all afternoon. Good stuff, I think. It's far from finished, but I produced eight pages in a couple of hours. It came fairly easy, just letting the story carry me. I knew who my characters were, or would become, but I let them create themselves. And it happened. I think I can write fiction.
Now, when I had to stop, when George awoke from his nap and it was time to make dinner, I had to leave two characters, mother & daughter, sitting at the kitchen table. I had to leave a boy in a tree. I had to leave the fate of a corpse up in the air....well, perhaps not in the air, but you get the idea, right?
I left them there, yet they have not left me. I've been thinking about them, all the while I was making Buffalo wings and a pan of fried peppers and onions in olive oil. They hovered about me, suggesting this turn or this dip or this spontaneous flight. I always thought of fiction writers as some sort of god, creating a world out of thin air, but it doesn't work that way. Or it's not working that way for me. They are giving me options, and I'm merely checking the box next to the ones that make the most literary sense. Fiction is multiple choice? Well, of course it is!
Now, I've asked my characters to let me rest. I've been flitting around on the internet, looking at this and that, nursing a growing headache. I've taken Tylenol symbolically, as I know that the headache is muscular rather than....what is the alternative? What particular cause of headache is vulnerable to acetaminophen's particular pain-defeating properties? I don't know. Lots of things I don't know.
I'm watching "Almost Famous." Used to be one of my favorite movies. TNT is running it, and I have to say, it's not the same with all the bad words voiced over. Penny Lane has just od'd on 'ludes and champaigne. Strangest love scene in modern cinema. Stevie Wonder singing My Cherie Amor. Once she is out of danger, walking in the park with young William, he finally learns her name: Lady. Lady Goodman. So sweet.
Hyper. That's what I am. Hyper, hungry for a story of my own making, but those characters...they need rest, too. They can sit, the old woman and the not-so-old woman (I've made her my age) and have their tea. The young boy can sleep in his tree house, if I choose to give him a tree house, tonight. He won't mind. He's eleven. It will be an adventure.
Till later....
Now, when I had to stop, when George awoke from his nap and it was time to make dinner, I had to leave two characters, mother & daughter, sitting at the kitchen table. I had to leave a boy in a tree. I had to leave the fate of a corpse up in the air....well, perhaps not in the air, but you get the idea, right?
I left them there, yet they have not left me. I've been thinking about them, all the while I was making Buffalo wings and a pan of fried peppers and onions in olive oil. They hovered about me, suggesting this turn or this dip or this spontaneous flight. I always thought of fiction writers as some sort of god, creating a world out of thin air, but it doesn't work that way. Or it's not working that way for me. They are giving me options, and I'm merely checking the box next to the ones that make the most literary sense. Fiction is multiple choice? Well, of course it is!
Now, I've asked my characters to let me rest. I've been flitting around on the internet, looking at this and that, nursing a growing headache. I've taken Tylenol symbolically, as I know that the headache is muscular rather than....what is the alternative? What particular cause of headache is vulnerable to acetaminophen's particular pain-defeating properties? I don't know. Lots of things I don't know.
I'm watching "Almost Famous." Used to be one of my favorite movies. TNT is running it, and I have to say, it's not the same with all the bad words voiced over. Penny Lane has just od'd on 'ludes and champaigne. Strangest love scene in modern cinema. Stevie Wonder singing My Cherie Amor. Once she is out of danger, walking in the park with young William, he finally learns her name: Lady. Lady Goodman. So sweet.
Hyper. That's what I am. Hyper, hungry for a story of my own making, but those characters...they need rest, too. They can sit, the old woman and the not-so-old woman (I've made her my age) and have their tea. The young boy can sleep in his tree house, if I choose to give him a tree house, tonight. He won't mind. He's eleven. It will be an adventure.
Till later....
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