Been spending the week fighting with my novel’s heroine because I want her to do something foreign to her character, e.g. anything interesting at all, and she wants to stay at home and draw fish and never meet anyone.
If I were really good at this I’d recognize that I myself am this woman, and rather than staying in and writing about a woman who draws fish, I’d force myself to go out and talk to a stranger and visit a new part of town, thus learning exactly how a shut-in makes herself open the door and how it feels to do that. But it’s really raining a lot out there, and inside I have a heater, and snacks.
For the sake of my future test readers, who will be forced to read this story whether it’s entertaining or not, I must kick my proxy out of doors and into a world of substance and adventure. But when she turns around and sees me still wrapped up in bedclothes, warm and dry and drinking my second cup of coffee, I fear our relationship may be irreparably damaged.
On the other hand, most of you are presumably turning to look at me, swaddled and cozy, from your wind-and-weather, outside-the-house jobs, and you don’t hate me. Probably. Much. So maybe it will be all right.