Friday's post got me thinking a little about how odd it was that I really just couldn't change the way the story went. After all, it's my story isn't it? Then it clicked. This isn't my story at all! It's his story.
I have to explain this and hopefully I won't sound crazy. I probably will, but here's hoping anyway. I have absolutely no control over this story. Zip; Zilch; Nada; None. In truth this story is controlling me. It pours through my mind like some ghost river and it is relentless until the words are typed out, or written down somewhere, anywhere. I just have to get it out.
It's really difficult to describe, but more than once during the writing of this series I found myself writing for hours on end and having no idea what I've written until I went back (after some much-needed sleep) later to read it over.
I really feel like I am not really the creator of this tale. This tale already existed out there somewhere and I guess I was the only brain tuned into that station. I was the lightening rod. I am nothing more than a conduit for this story. I sit at the computer finding that sentences, intrigues, plots and sub-plots, are being formed on the screen in front of me.
Certainly it was my fingers that typed out the story, but was it my brain that thought it up? I'd love to take all the credit and say yes, but I'm not sure I can. This story is bigger than I am. It's almost as if my character's ghost is standing at my shoulder, letting me know how things happened.
This story isn't mine. It's his. I just hope I can do it justice.
Perhaps I do need that straight jacket.