i hold in my fingertips the lives of a whole book’s worth of characters.
unless i free them, their lives are on hold. their relationships stilted. their histories are hidden in the silence of my keyboard. their secrets are safely tucked away; untold, untouched.
they wait.
they follow me around, looking out at me from that mysterious land within me where imaginary people are born. periodically, i’ll go back and read what’s been written. i watch them come alive before me. they stir into action, reviewing what i’ve created of them over and over again like Ground Hog day. they talk to one another. they build lives. they hope. they share. they tuck themselves away, not ready to be seen.
and then, they freeze up again as i shut the document, folding up their lives. they wait.
i carry them with me daily. and far away, far from the reality of my keyboard, untouched by the interpretation of others. they are waiting.
i am almost ready.
i’m not sure what makes me hesitant to bring them into the open. it’s not like the story isn’t complete, inside where i keep stories-in-waiting.
it’s not like i have confusion about their identities or their state of being. i know where they are going. i know what comes next. i know where they’ll be in book four, five, six. i know where they’ve come from.
i just … don’t want anyone else to touch them yet.
but they’re dying in there. dying to get out.
meanwhile, like an overprotective mother, i want to keep them safe just a while longer.
they are young still. they don’t know what’s out there. they aren’t ready.
yet.
•
Before I write down one word, I have to have the character in my mind through and through. I must penetrate into the last wrinkle of his soul. • HENRIK IBSEN
