They said that, while writing, characters would just appear unbidden, each with a life of their own. I didn't believe that until today, when Allen showed up. He's a bit of a twit, actually, pompous and full of himself but with a lovely, long-suffering Boston Terrier named Skittles. I'd say he's at the top of the list of murder candidates right now. Funny thing about writing a murder mystery is you know that someone has to die. So as each character steps on stage I have to wonder: will they be the one? Sort of a perverse form of speed-dating, quickly assessing who I might kill.
Some characters are based on real people, or amalgams of real folks. But even then, there is an element of mystery that humbles me. I may know their name or appearance but in trying to imagine their thoughts or the color of their bathroom walls I find myself wanting to do justice to their human complexity.
Who knew making things up could bring such reverence.
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