Voices in the Night

Being a writer has its ups and downs. I guess that is true of any profession, or matter of lifestyle. Nothing is perfect, and once we learn to accept that simple truth of the universe, you would think all would become clear... or perhaps easier.

And yet here I sit... not writing. Thinking. But not writing. I have two plays I am trying to finish in less than three weeks. These are plays that have sat with me for ages, the characters strolling about... at this point, I think they're all at some cocktail in my head having a laugh at me.

I say this because I've been focused on these two stories, and yet another group of characters have come back and voiced a request. A seemingly simple, and probably legit proposal:

Write us. Write us, damn it.

"Write us"? Yeah, because that's worked out oh so well all these years. Maybe I should. Maybe I should just give them another story -- another version of their lives that plays out simply and efficiently without question. Just do it. Without the tacky 90s commercialized catch phrase.

Maybe I should.

I love creating characters. I love when they speak to me. Spill their secrets. Connect to me. Whether they come from muses long forgotten. Or chemical switches in my cerebrum. Or some "Stranger Than Fiction" connection that's impossible to explain, yet makes the writer in me smile when faced with the minute possibility of improbability. I love to see them, to meet them, to write them.

But the room is crowded. The cocktail party bursting and everyone's vying for their spot. So how to put order to the chaos? Take a number? Draw straws? Pin the tail on the character?

Close my eyes, breathe deep, and see if anything becomes clear?

I don't think there's an answer.

"Write what comes out," he said. "Write what you want."

Okay, Northman.

I'm gonna try that simple maxim for a couple days. And hopefully something will be written and stories will be told. Because otherwise, what the hell am I doing? Exactly.