jml297

They talk to me, my characters. I’ve read interviews with authors who say this is quite common, and lucky writers have some of their main characters arrive with fully formed personalities. My experience is more subtle. I can try with all the willpower I can harness to imagine someone into being, but what seems to work best is to look the other way, then when I glance back, one of them is waiting for me.

Olive was one of my first characters, based on one of my aunties. She was forthright, meddlesome, and keen to tell you what you were doing wrong. Bert was more laid-back, less vocal, but one of those handy blokes who steps up and helps out when you need it. He was good at spinning a yarn, and was less fussed about the truth than others.

Some of them take a little piece of your heart, like little Samuel, who was in a short story where he’d been left by the side of the road. He was a brave little fella, and I can still see his forlorn expression as he watched his father drive away.

Then there are those that you’d be happy to leave behind. The two-timing cad who was spotted being attacked by birds, drawn to his combed-over hair by lime-scented pomade. His vanity was a constant over the years.

Some of them take you to places you’ve never been, giving a glimpse of a life that would otherwise be unknown. Going back decades, and in some instances, centuries, to provide a greater understanding of a different time.

When they talk to me, as they sometimes do, it can be with a sense of impatience. Life doesn’t take a break, and they are keen to move, too, and keep their story going. Explaining that I haven’t worked it out yet doesn’t help. Occasionally, characters like Olive will argue the point, saying that she wouldn’t act in that way, or say such a thing. And I take that into consideration, though there are times when you need to push against what is logical or fair to get to where you want the story to go.

Sometimes, characters from different stories meet. This can be challenging but interesting to observe as they eye each other warily. It’s when they compare notes, talking of me as some sort of omnipotent being, that I need to be wary of developing a god complex. Because as well as the range of characters in the wings, there are those that have been despatched or left behind, their legacy limited as the stories roll on.

This was written to a prompt at my local writing group.

Photo: mural on a bookshop at Hornsby, NSW