My Imaginary Friends

I saw a sweatshirt recently I think I might have to buy. It says, "Writer's block is when your imaginary friends stop talking to you." I'd wear it on the days when I'm feeling discouraged about something I'm writing. I mean, if they make sweatshirts about it, I can't be alone. Right?

Not that I've ever experienced classic writer's block. If that's a complete throttling of all ability to write, I've had more like writer's Jersey barrier--it keeps me from going in the direction I had planned to go by putting a big, ugly concrete thing in front of me.

It is usually put there by my imaginary friends. Because they do talk to me. My characters, that is. Some days they're more real than some of the folks in the grocery store. (That's not as scary as you think. You have no idea who shops at my grocery store.)

Anyway, my point is my characters and I have a close personal relationship. We talk to each other. They let me listen to them talk to each other, even to other people not in the story. It's how I know who I'm writing about. Until I get it wrong. Then they put up that big Jersey barrier and I'm in trouble.

It's usually because I have forced one of them to do something they would never think of doing. An out of character behavior or bit of dialog. Swearing when they'd never swear. Being aggressive when they're a shrinking violet. Okay, let's get real. Hardly ever do I write about shrinking violets. It's more likely I've made a confident person act tentatively in circumstances where s/he would never behave that way.

What they do, my little imaginary friends, is populate my dreams. They bitch at me, tell me in no uncertain terms how wrong I am. If I'm lucky, they suggest new ways to get through the scene they don't like. If I'm not, they just  point out the error of my ways and expect me to figure it out.

It happened recently when I thought I was happy with a revised novel. Amanda wasn't. She gave me bad dreams for I-don't-even-remember how many nights in a row until I made it right.

Genre fiction, the kind I write, is supposed to be plot-driven. Or formulaic. Maybe some of it is. The kind I like isn't. It's character driven. The imaginary friends of the writer show up in the first chapter, hook my interest and lead me through their lives, conflicts and resolutions. Yes, the end of genre fiction is predictable--the killer's caught, the lovers reunite, the world is saved. But only because the writer listened to her/his imaginary friends and let them be who they really are.