"When characters are really alive, before their author, the latter does nothing but follow them in their action." Luigi Pirandello
I am amazed at how the human brain works. On Monday night, I could write nothing. I tried to find a way through my insecurities about how my book was progressing, but I couldn't. Then, yesterday morning at about 4am, I lay in bed thinking about my Nana and wondered how she coped when her husband died. She had three little children, the youngest was only six weeks old, and she was in a foreign, civil war torn country.
When I sat down to write last night after a pretty full on day at work, I found that I was hearing her talk, feeling her sadness, and picturing her sitting by the fire on Christmas night in 1926, looking into the flames and missing her dear Oliver. I cried as I wrote what she told me to write. I cry even now as I write this, knowing now how very sad she was and how much she missed him.
Thanks Nana. I do hope you are happy with my treatment of your story. Love you.
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