Once again, the characters knew what was happening. Following the action, I typed.
While all were heading for the same ending, the characters took different paths. Where they frequently demand attention for themselves like hungry little kittens, today, the characters were coordinated about who should go when. “Start and type this chapter,” one said, and that was done. “Continue with this chapter,” another said when the first was finished, and that was done. Meanwhile, the revelations made and the other characters and points they introduced surprised me — again. They talked about things that I’d never considered, leading me into directions that caused me to say, “Wow.”
Two thousand words later, after intense typing, I told them, “I need to stop.” My ass was asleep, for one. My coffee remained, cold and oily, and my stomach announced it was empty and required something be put into it. But beyond those prosaic matters, I wanted to revel in the characters’ revelations. It’s embarrassing and humbling to make this admission, but it’s like I’ve been reading some terrific book, but strangely, it’s the one I’m writing.
I should put that in quotes, as it honestly felt like I was transcribing what I saw and heard. It’s surreal. I suppose I should be jaded by this process by now, but it still strikes me as a surreal experience. It still amazes me. It’s still fun.
I know that I’m not the only writer who experiences writing in this manner. I’m probably the only one who regularly gushes about it in blog posts. I have read other posts where the blogger is skeptical that my sort of process happens. They doubt that I can’t know what the characters know. That’s writing, though, a different process for all of us.
Enough. Done writing like crazy, for at least one more day.