When Calvin and I married ten years ago, he insisted I retire. He claimed he wanted the pleasure of my company all day long. Poor soul soon learned I needed something to keep me occupied so I wouldn't dust him to death or launder his clothes while he was still wearing them. One day he cuffed his hands on my shoulders, pushed me toward the computer in the spare bedroom and said, "Sit down and start writing. You keep talking about it, but never do it. I'll see you later." He hurried back to his beloved news channel on the TV.
That was the day he lost possession of his wife. For I am now owned by my characters. They snatch me from my office chair and drop me in the coolest places: Texas, Paris, Budapest, Scotland. They've had me on horses, on the backs of bucking bulls, speeding along on Harleys, scrambling across the rooftops of vans, and running from terrorists on the streets of Paris. They make me laugh, cry, growl and tremor in fear. They shower with me. They talk to me while I'm driving. They whisper in my ear as I toss items in the grocery cart. And they invade my dreams. I'm telling you, they won't give me a moment's peace!
I am one lucky woman!
You see, two years ago, I had a cancerous cyst removed from my saliva gland. A four-hour surgery that has left my left cheek and ear numb. About a month afterward, two golden orbs started glowing in the back of my mind. Cancer, I thought. Despite what the doctors told me, I was convinced that cancer has spread to my brain. I went into major worry mode. I researched online and not once in all my research did I read that brain cancer glowed. Nor did I have any of the symptoms the Mayo Clinic and others listed. I was just about to call the doctor's office when the golden orbs blinked. Eyes? Those are eyes? (By now, I suspect your gaze has drifted up to my last sentence in paragraph one...that's okay...I understand.)
Those golden eyes watched me for months...silently...waiting...and I had no clue what they wanted.
Then one night as I was in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and sleep, the eyes moved from the back of my mind to the foot of the bed and slowly the shape of a huge bear formed.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I whispered to the bear. "You've come to the wrong author. I don't write children's stories." He shook his head. "Oh? You're not a children's bear?" Slowly the bear shifted to a man in a kilt. "Oh dear, you're still in the wrong writer's bedroom. I don't write paranormal."
He stalked around the foot of the bed and stood next to me. "Aye, lassie, but ye will." He lifted the covers and I slid closer to Calvin to make room. The Scot settled into our bed and folded his hands over his broad chest. "Let me tell ye how bears came to be extinct in Scotland..." And from that point on Creighton Matheson has owned me...and will until I finish this book and another character moves into the dank, dusty recesses of my mind.
Do your characters own you?