Click, click, click, click, goes the keys under my fingers. Usually I write slowly but today I’m inspired so today I’m beaming at the screen and enjoying the sounds of the quick clicking.
I feel a little guilty though, I’m writing a musical rewrite of a story I haven’t even finished writing in the first place so what could be more pointless than that? But wherever the inspiration leads, right?
I ran the idea past my characters last night, they’re not completely on board but I don’t think there will be any major problems.
I about jump as my door slams open and suddenly my character Luke is standing next to me.
“You can’t make Cam do this!”
I stop typing and just stare into his wide scared eyes. I should probably feel sad for him but instead I’m thinking “dang, he found the plot hole.”
“You forgot about her trauma!”
The plot hole in question is that I already established that this wasn’t a rewrite but supposed to be them reenacting they’re past, except that one girl, Cam, is traumatized by her past, so how would she dance and sing about it? I ignore the problem, that’s how. It seemed like a good enough solution for something that’s totally pointless but apparently not good enough for characters, no they don’t care how useless or non-canon something is it must make sense.
Now I realize that his gaze has only been intensifying while I rambled in my head, his eyes are practically bulging.
I turn my desk chair to face him better. “She’s unstable not completely broken, I can work my author powers,” I wiggle my fingers “to make her OK.”
He considers. “You promise?”
“Yeah, besides this is supposed to be a fun story.” I smile but he doesn’t return it.
“How many other stories were supposed to be fun?”
“She’ll be fine,” I drag the words out, getting exasperated now; but Luke’s character was created to save Cam’s so what else should I expect from him?
He drums his fingers on the corner of my desk as he stares off into space, technically he’s staring at my bookcase I don’t think you could see space from here.
I doubt I’m going to get any writing done if him there so I ask what’s wrong.
“I’m sorry,” he looks back at me apologetically, “but you don’t seem to have much author powers over your characters.”
“I wonder why!” I smirk at him but he doesn’t seem to be getting my joke.
“You’re author powers can’t make me OK with this."
“No,” my smile fades, “but I can make you do it anyway.”
He glances around my room.
“I’m sorry, if we weren’t a writer and her character we could be better friends.”
His gaze lingers on my wall. “Sometimes I wish we were better friends instead…” Head hung low he leaves my room, and is more careful with the door this time.
I turn back to my laptop, my fingers hovering above the keys. “Yeah, me too.”