The first time it happened was in the middle of the night. I woke from peaceful slumber, a deep masculine voice ringing in my ear. “You can’t make me do that! I’m no wuss!”
Who was the dark-eyed, dark-haired man protecting his masculinity? Not my husband. Though he does have lovely laughing brown eyes, hubby’s hair is mostly grey and mostly gone. Besides, he was sound asleep, snoring ever so slightly.
The vocal fellow was Carter Whealdon; a complete figment of my imagination, a character in my first novel, The Painted Ladies. I’d made him do something, can’t remember what, that offended his virile soul. And he was making himself heard.
My characters talk to me; all the time, non-stop. They tell me they don’t like the clothes I chose for them, the friends I picked for them, the relatives I dumped on them. Why is it they only complain?
Why can’t my characters cheer about the good stuff that floats out the depths of my imagination? Why hasn’t Danni Parlowe thanked me for gifting her with the above-mentioned hunk? Why doesn’t he whisper sweet nothings to her in the dark of the night?
See this romantic photo? Well, Danni doesn’t care for that tattoo, no matter how sweet and sentimental the verse. My man Carter won't have anything do with this gal unless she's a natural blonde. Sheesh! What’s a writer to do?
Go away, people of my conscious deep
I really need my beauty sleep
So on the morrow, at the keys
I finally write some stuff to please.
Do your characters complain or congratulate? Do you listen to them? Are you mad, or are you a writer?
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