When a New Character Won't Shut Up

-
I've been happily plodding along working on my YA novel about two sixteen year old girls. I have the entire thing mapped out (but I'm not afraid to go off track), and I've been writing every day. I love my characters, plot and ending.

Then, out of nowhere, a new character and story pops up. Not only is he unwelcomed, but he's a HE! I've never written a male main character before, and I had no intention of doing so.

I was in the car one day with my five year old, when he asked me a question about our family life. I could have answered one of two ways: I could have given him an I-don't-know-now-stop-talking-about-it-answer, or I could be honest like I usually am when he asks questions. I went with honesty, and as I was explaining I started to wonder if I was telling him too much for an almost-six year old to comprehend.

Then I started wondering about him at fifteen and being neurotic and worrying about things too much because I told him too much when he was a kid. BAM! I had a character. That night I tossed and turned in bed as the male character told me his name, where he lived, and what his parents were like. I finally had to get up and find some index cards to write stuff down. Then I fell asleep.

Now I have THIS kids story practically writing itself every day. I'm taking notes like a good little writer, but I'm trying to refrain from actually writing anything until I'm done with my current ya.

I'm not complaining, believe me. I'd much rather have characters throwing themselves at me than feeling like I'm a brain dead writer who can't come up with anything.

Has this happened to you? How do you handle it? Have you ever had the urge to write about something/someone unfamiliar?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

My Name is Lisa and I Write Crap

-
Image
I used to be so afraid of writing something horrible, that I wouldn't write anything at all. I'd have a half-hour or so to myself and instead of getting as much down as I could, I'd type, delete, retype and delete again. I had to have perfect sentences formed from perfect ideas. It didn't work. It took me years to finally learn to just write anything. Even if it's crap (and it usually is first time around). But I'm finally OK with writing a crappy first draft. If it's still crap when I'm done, well, that's another problem all together. I used to think, What if I died tomorrow and my family found this notebook full of god-awful first drafts? They'd think I was a terrible writer! If I can write only awesome sentences, they'll realize what talent I had and be sorry they didn't take more interest in my amazing stories... or something like that. Anyway, now when I start writing a story (whether it's a novel or a screenplay) I just
Read more

Yet Another Embarrassing Confession (you would think I'd have run out by now)

-
The absolute worst part about being a writer for me is grammar and punctuation. With every post I put up, every email I send and every story I write, I am waiting for someone to come back to me and say, "Seriously? How can a writer not know where to put commas?" Commas are my enemy. I have no clue where they go. I try to put them where I think would be a natural pause in a sentence, but I know I'm usually wrong. I basically toss them up in the air willy-nilly and let them land where they want. Can you recommend a grammar/punctuation book that is easy to understand? (I never took a "real" English class in high school, so I'm starting fresh). The Elements of Style is too...sterile for me. I need something I can easily grasp onto. I'd greatly appreciate any, suggestions. (<< that comma was a joke. See, at least I can joke about my ignorance)
Read more

The Time I Exploded When I Was Seven

-
Image
I was seven the summer of 1977, when my dad told me Elvis Presley had died. For a young kid, I was actually pretty interested in music and felt bad about him dying. I asked how Elvis died and my dad told me he exploded because he ate too much. I believed him. What did I know, I was seven? A few days later my dad made us egg salad and olive sandwiches, my favorite. I ate my entire sandwich and asked for another one. He made it for me. I ate about half of it when suddenly I started to not feel so good. I ran to the bathroom and threw it all up. My dad came in and said I ate way too much. Couldn't he have told me that bit of information before he made me the second sandwich? I started crying hysterically and wouldn't stop. He asked why and I told him I was exploding like Elvis and about to die. He laughed. I cried and threw up some more. I didn't eat egg and olive again until I was 28 and my husband made me try it. Now I love it. But only one sandwich at a time
Read more