The characters in a novel reflect the inner workings of a writer. From the most mundane to the most interesting, each character encompasses different characteristics from the inner workings of the writer's mind. And so, sitting here in my desk, I see a writer now distilling their love into their character, making such character a lover. Their rage, on a stroke of anger, is scribbled into the description of the antagonist. And random facts and fillers, are given to the background characters. Those characters that don't make much noise, but whose actions scream from each line of the written page.
My characters are pieces of me now. They are not yet solidified, but are melliable as liquid and dangerously ephemeral as fleeting glass. I'm afraid one day I'm going to wake up, and they will be gone from the columns of what I have already written. Or worse. Maybe, they'll remain there, in the page, but I will no longer love them. I would have lost interest and moved on to my next venture. What would have that have said about me?
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