Writing has always seemed subjective to me. Sometimes, I look at the fiction that I have just written and say, “This is real garbage. I’ll never be good at this.” I absolutely remember the first time one of my characters came alive on the page. It was an argument scene between a man and a woman. The end was already written. I had played it out in my head. There were all these cute little sayings and witticisms that my man guy was going to use to dominate this timid controllable woman and win the argument.
It started simply and progressed accordingly, but something seemed to happen along the way. This timid little woman all of a sudden got a back bone. She stood up strait and tall, tucked in her shirt, pulled up her pants, and let my man guy have a verbal tongue lashing. You know the one that only a fed up domineered woman of a stupid controlling abusive idiot for a boyfriend kind of gal can deliver. I was shocked. She wasn’t supposed to win. She was supposed to be left speechless. Instead, during the writing I found myself saying, “you go girl. You tell this jerk of a man exactly what you think of him.”
“Yeah, and Furthermore, Mr. Holier than thou, let me tell you how I really feel about you.” I couldn’t believe it but at the end of the paragraph, I was part of the sisterhood. She had won me over and taken on a life all of her own. I couldn’t have stopped her if I had wanted. It was surreal. I guess when you come right down to it, there is no question. Some times you say, “Yes, Dear,” and you write what you’re told. Albert Bianchine
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