I sit down to write each day with little idea of what’s going to happen. This terrifies me.
Then I read a sentence or two of what I’ve written the day before, sometimes a little more, and the story takes off. In the space of ninety minutes to two hours, I’ll add two to three thousand more words, then stop and edit a little. Few changes are required; the story is coming to me so fully complete, I’m just the typist.
I know where and how the story started and where it’s supposed to be going. I lack all clues about how to get it there. I just followed the muses. They’ve presented this character that I don’t understand. He’s erratic. I know the reasons he’s erratic, as more of his backstory comes to me after I’ve written about him. After I write, I walk away and think, why did he do that? What’s wrong with him? He’s so inconsistent, I worry about it; I want to fix that, and make him consistent. But I suspect that if I attempt to fix him, he’ll just stop and the muses will walk away.
So…I let it ride, accepting my role as typist. The story sometimes entertains me, but more often baffles me. I’m writing mostly to see what happens next.
It’s a weird, odd role, being the typist. I know some writers insist that what I’m describing is complete bullshit, muses and characters don’t just take over.
Yeah, but here I am, with my coffee, about to do it again. It really is writing like crazy. It’s gotten me to seventy-seven pages so far. Guess I’ll just hang on and try to enjoy the ride.
Still holding her phone up, Mya stared at her mother. Her mother had such a pretty face. Everyone said so, but whenever it was just her and her mom, her mother delivered every set of thoughts with a long sigh, as if what she has just stated is a great burden. “Beverly’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll need to send her a birthday card.” Long sigh.
“I have no energy. I’ll make a cup of coffee in a minute, after I do this puzzle.” Long sigh.
“What do we have in the freezer to have for dinner? I suppose I can take out some salmon.” Long sigh.
Listening, watching her mother, Mya wondered where the long sighs came from, and why she did it. Looking into her short tube of memories (she couldn’t help thinking like that, thank you, Uncle Pat), the eleven-year-old decided that she would not be like her mother, sighing as though burdened with everything that she does.
“We can have rice with it. Do we have rice? Let me go look.” Long sigh.
“I’ll look,” Mya said, jumping up. Then she caught herself sighing and wondered, was it already too late?