Talking to Myself...

I was on my knees, bent over the faucet in the bathtub washing my hair. I was thinking, and said aloud, "Oh, no!"

I didn't know anyone was around until I heard Husband say, "Do you need my help?"

I laughed and said no, I was talking to myself.

You see, it started out innocently enough. A name struck a chord within me and a short story evolved. At least I thought  it was a short story.

I had it all tied up neatly, a cute ending, everything just so.

And suddenly, the next day, while I was washing my hair, a second "chapter" if you will, started forming in my head.

Musta been cause I was turned upside down.

My just finished novel isn't even cold. It's in the proofing/editing process, not ready to offer as a sacrifice to my publisher yet.

And here I am, my brain hearing characters hollering around at each other in my poor head.

It's sort of like having a newborn and finding out you're pregnant again.

I'm not ready.

Like that  matters.

Conjured Up

As most ya'll know, I am working on my sixth book.

This book is told in first person by a nine year old little girl.

Now, the more I write, the more real she becomes. I know a lot about her, more about her than you ever will, even if you read the book.

Because you can't put someone's whole life, their whole self between the covers of a book.

I believe if you have a character in a book who seems real to the person reading, then that character must be fully born, not a cardboard cutout.

For instance, I know she has an inny, not an outy. I know she doesn't like  her chin, but it isn't something she talks about to anyone for fear of hurting someone's feelings. I know she hates to pee at someone else's house, but is too polite to say so.

None of those things are in the book. But they are there, because that's a part of who she is.

I know how she turns out all grown up, more or less, but the book ends at the beginning of her tenth  year.

If you are a writer, you know exactly what I mean, you get it.

If you are not, you are pretty sure I'm just as crazy as you suspected.

I have people look at me and shake their heads, saying they can't even imagine what I'm talking about - characters in my head, not knowing what they might do in the next chapter, behaving in a way you don't expect them to.

I think they half admire me and half feel relief that they aren't that way at all.

So, the next time you pick up a book, think about the author for just a moment.

That's their baby you're holding in your  hands.

A Little Girl's Voice

You know, writing is a funny thing.

There will be nothing there. I'll be going about my life as usual. You know, a regular life, reading, cooking, singing, bossing people around, whatever.

And then, those characters who have never been heard from before, come alive inside my head.

Now I have found a little girl's voice. Of course, part of  her is me, that's just a fact. But she's more than just me, she's different and has a life of her own.

I have written close to sixty pages, and she still has a lot to say, so I guess I'm writing another book.

It's about a little girl who is nine years old. It's 1963 and in  a tiny town in the South. That sounds like my life. She also has friends and a family like mine were.

But that's where it stops. The people I knew/know, and events that occurred in our lives, are a mere outline to who these new characters are.

I don't delve too far into all that, it might mess up the magic.

But maybe it's how an observer would have seen us. Or maybe some of it is how I wish it had been. Or am glad it wasn't that way.

No one has read any of it yet, but my daughter has agreed to read the first rough draft to do some editing.

We'll see what she says. She's a writer too, and has a good eye for what is "real" in my fiction.

Time will tell.