Out of what I am, what I read, what I know, imagine, and think, come thoughts that I didn’t know, things absorbed which now push up out of my mind’s mantle of thinking and into the novel.
The characters develop sympathies that I didn’t expect. Vulnerabilities and phobias that I’ve never known are introduced. Their attitudes harden. The new attitudes shape their directions and decisions, flexing the story’s direction.
I play catch up with my thinking, but I’m always falling behind. The characters and I go through the story together, seeing what happens and catching our breath.
It’s been a good day of writing like crazy, but it’s left me somber and reflective. After all that’s happened so far, the main character now faces a large metal door. It seems to be brushed steel.
We’re both waiting for it to open.
Even as I contemplate it, the door sneaks open. Whispers of the next conversation float out. “Who are you?”
“I think that’s my line.”
“How’d you get here?”
“That’s also my line.”
So it begins unfolding as doubt and confusion wrestles with truth and expectations, and story forms.
Another day of writing done and gone, at least one more time.