I’m the writer. You’re invented – a post about the characters that take over

“Stupid idiot,” I mutter. “You’re killing her!”
“Who?” asks hubby, raising his gaze from his chess app.
“Rodrigo!” I sigh. “Silly young man. Seriously, he needs to communicate with her.”
“He’s what? Nineteen?” hubby asks (see? He pays attention) “What young man at that age knows how to communicate with a woman he’s in love with?”
True, that. But he should know better. There he is, spying on poor Alma, and he knows how devastated she is, and he does nothing—nothing!—to soothe her. “How can he do that?” I exclaim.
“Well, if you don’t know, I sure don’t. You wrote that,” hubby says. “If you don’t like it, change it.”
Pffff! It’s not that simple. First of all, Rodrigo’s actions are based on honourable intentions. Plus, the story benefits from all this tension and heartache—not that I will ever tell Rodrigo that. No, instead I fix him with a scathing glare. (Yes. I do that. In my head. Just like I sometimes talk to him—well, to all my characters—out loud. Not that anyone raises as much as a brow at someone talking to themselves these days. We all assume they’ve got earbuds)

From his place in my manuscript, Rodrigo frowns right back. “What am I to do? My parents are already negotiating my marriage with someone else.” He sighs softly, his gaze on Alma who has her back to us but is evidently crying. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
Huh. You already have.
What neither Rodrigo nor Alma know is how their story will progress. At this point, not even I knew would happen next, because this is the strange thing about writing, that somehow the characters take over, and that carefully plotted narrative just falls apart. Initially, I intended for this story to focus almost exclusively on the real historical figures of my story, but, as always, my invented contributions to the storyline, i.e. Rodrigo, Alma and their families, have somehow grown from extras to protagonists.

It’s actually quite strange, this writing thing. In general, I start out with a couple of very graphic scenes in my head. When it comes to Queen of Shadows, my upcoming release, I had two very specific scenes. One is extremely harrowing—won’t tell you about it—the other involved two young people and a ripe peach. Neither of these scenes included Rodrigo or Alma. But then up popped another scene, one involving a very young  Alma,  being harassed by the horrible Gonzalo—and who came to the rescue but Rodrigo?

Which is how Alma became central to the story—and why we end up in situations where I scold Rodrigo for being an insensitive lout. Thing is, as I write, my characters develop likes and dislikes, good traits and bad ones. Quite often, they become someone else entirely than who I first thought they would be. Take Matthew Graham, male protagonist of The Graham Saga (le sigh: boy, do I love Matthew! He emerges from a dusty corner in my brain to blow me a kiss): I had no idea he was a devout Presbyterian—to me, he was a man fleeing the long arm of Cromwellian justice. Instead, this hazel-eyed Scotsman was to prove somewhat rigid in his morals and beliefs—a perfect counter point to my time traveller Alex Lind, who sort of landed at his feet, with no option but to make the best of her new circumstances.

As a consequence of my character’s unexpected addition of new virtues and vices, I quite often find myself in a quandary. That original scene, so visual, so forceful, so … heck, so perfect, has to be rewritten—or scrapped—as  it no longer rings true.  Aagh! Hair-tearing time, let me tell you. “I told you it wouldn’t work,” Alma says, from where she is standing in the shadows of an Andalusian patio.
“It did work; until you changed,” I bite back.
“I haven’t changed,” she laughs, “I’ve become consistent, credible, and well rounded.”
She has a point. Characters tend to spring to life as caricatures, far too much black and white, way too few shades of grey. And they come with question marks; do they like cheese? Are they allergic to wool (most unfortunate if you’re living in earlier periods), can they read, did they have a good relationship with their parents, can they swim, do they bray like donkeys when they laugh (Nope. Phew…) etc. etc. etc.

So maybe it’s no wonder the plot needs to be rewritten. Picture, for example. that the original story line calls for a scene in an apple orchard. The trees are heavy with fruit, it’s an early September morning up in the mountains of Castile. Glittering dew decorates the grass like a multitude of miniature diamonds, and here they come, the protagonists. He rises on his toes, picks a picture perfect apple and polishes it on his sleeve before extending it to her.
“I hate apples,” she says.
WHAT??? Cut, cut.
“You love apples,” I hiss.
“No I don’t. They give me a stomach ache.” She scowls. “And how would you know what I like?”
“How? Well maybe because I invented you in the first place!”
She gives me a sly grin. “You think you did. But maybe it’s the other way round, maybe I’m using YOU to tell my story, not you using ME to tell yours.”
Umm. This leads to some moments of severe existential angst before I conclude I’m the one who exists. Well, I think I am, even if I keep on hearing my favourite Spanish verse ringing in my head, the one about life being nothing but a dream.

Anyway; conclusion of the above is that the apple orchard scene, no matter the vibrancy of the descriptions, has to go. I’m fortunate in that it isn’t a pivotal scene – not this time. And all in all, my main characters tend to collaborate with my plot line more than they obstruct it – which just goes to prove that it was me inventing them and not the other way around, right?
Right?
From the depth of my manuscript comes a peal of teasing laughter and I hear Alma softly declaiming:

“¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.
¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,
una sombra, una ficción,
y el mayor bien es pequeño;
que toda la vida es sueño,
y los sueños, sueños son.”

Damn! I shouldn’t have made her Castilian. “You’re being anachronistic,” I tell her, “Calderón de la Barca wasn’t  born until three centuries later.”
Alma shrugs. “Living in your head makes time rather elastic.”
I suppose it does. Living in my head allows me to swish back and forth through time, without ever leaving the safety of my armchair. It fills my life with characters I come to love and care for (this is why I end up writing series. I have separation angst) and has me experiencing a sequence of emotions as I write and write and write.
Am I the dream?
Am I the writer?
Does it really matter?