My characters. I think they need a nanny, or other disciplinarian. I think I have them all nice and figured out, resume pecking away on their biographies, and then they tap me on the shoulder – or whack me in the kneecap with a baseball bat, possibly nail-studded – to say “um, hellooooooo! That’s not what happened!”
This latest psychic assault by imaginary beings comes at the hands of Little Miss No Name. I’ve mentioned the project before, and posted a chunk of it here, so those of you who’ve been reading along are probably familiar with the basic idea, and seen the first couple of paragraphs. This afternoon, while I was attempting to cap off her memoir, she reared her adorable little blonde head and whispered in my ear, telling me “Um, mister? I think you meant to say this. And that. And I think you forgot to tell the people about this and this and that earlier.”
So now she’s undergoing a near-complete rewrite, adding in some of the details that figure in to the actual ending, instead of sitting happily in the final edit stage where I can clean up little things like tense and voice issues.
Sometimes I hate my characters. But I can never tell them no. And I have to admit, their suggestions and commentary are usually far better than my own thoughts on their stories.