I woke up to the laughter of characters. They have entire scenes and dialogues already worked out and they’re begging me to write them down. Sadly I don’t work on “character” time. I’ve got responsibilities. I have to get up, get ready, and go to the office for the day because I’ve agreed to help at the family business. Now it’s not like they don’t pay me, but it’s not something I have to do. I do it because my help is needed and at the moment it would take too much to replace my happy arse. Not to mention I do like getting out of the house.
At the office I check my daily sales numbers, I get invoices ready for processing, I begin processing them. My characters compel me open a file on my thumb drive and at least get the gist of their scene down. I do as I’m told. If I’ve learned anything over the years it’s that characters won’t take no for an answer – I either comply or they’ll withhold sleep, invade my dreams, or bug me incessantly until I can think of nothing else.
I finish with the scene and get back to what I’m doing. By six, I’m done for the day and ready to come home and have dinner with DH. Afterward the kitties demand attention and domestic duties may ask for attention, too. I do anything else I have planned. Finally, the computer calls me again and I sit, staring at the glowing screen waiting for the words to flood out of my fingertips. Sometimes they do – sometimes they don’t.
The cycle repeats over and over again, day after day. Not nearly as glamorous as it sounds, is it? No, writing is work, but it’s the only job I’ve ever loved.