I’ve always found it pretty weird when I hear writers talking about how their characters are like real people inside their head, telling them their stories, or how if they don’t write they’ll explode/die/whatevers.
Well, that’s not the weird part. I can accept that that’s how it works for them. The weird part is that they’re baffled by the fact that is DOESN’T work that way for me. Actually it’s more like they’re annoyed by it, as if somehow my lack of imaginary brain spawn means that I’m faking the writing thing.
The only time I dream about my characters is when I’m stuck on a scene and I spend the early part of the morning half-asleep, listening to the call to prayer and brainstorming. Characters aren’t my friends. I don’t buy them gifts or talk to them when I’m lonely. They’re people I want to torture to see what they do next.
God ain’t your friend, peeps.
I would not die if I didn’t write. Most of the time I have to bribe myself with food and episodes of various anime/house/doctor who in order to crank out 500 words. So this is how it works in my world:
First draft writing sucks. It’s hard slog, and I am so not a grafter.
Fixing what I’ve written is way more fun.
And being done with it and going whoa wow I did that is awesomer still.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the rush of a new character and story idea, and the afterglow of climaxing. (yes, that was on purpose, and lame, but hey, I make no pretence). It’s just that writing isn’t some mystical thing for me. It’s just what I do slightly better than anything else. If I wasn’t allowed to write, I’d probably be cooking or painting or running marathons.
But I wouldn’t be dead.
And now I can hear you judging me over the interwebs, telling me I’m not a real writer.