There
is a story that has been writing itself in my head., for the past year. I love
the characters and the story that reveals itself ; but there is no fascinating.
, titilating twisting, turning plot ; just lives unfolding , as they do .
if
there was a diabolical, all-will-be-revealed plot, it would not be such a
wonderful thing to do , writing and discovering the lives that each person
becomes.
I
keep thinking I should 'insist " it develop a complex plot line . Stand up
straight ! Get disciplined here.
"You all, over here. Right now.
" or "Let's get nitty gritty, everyone , a little 'As The World
Turns"?
In fact, the story keeps going by
way of the inescapable hard events life invariably holds. Deaths and childhood
illnesses, brain injuries and addiction . Racism and harm. One of the main
protagonists becomes a paraplegic . Maltreated children are rescued and adopted
, others born of surprise. Traumatized adults slowly wind their way toward
committing suicide. Others pull away from their lives ,in distress .
So now, come to think of it, there
really is enough that surprises , that weaves together. Some things that die on
the vine.
Perhaps I've been immersed in this
work, that tumbles along by itself inside of me, waking me with new characters
replete with their predilections and fine thoughts and tragic flaws .
Suddenly , I realize there is already , by its little subconscious lonesome,
enough human life crap to sink ten ships .
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