Dear friends. I confess, I have been dreadfully, atrociously preoccupied, as of late. I am writing my first novel, and it sure has taken off. It consumes my every thought.

When in the shower, I'm conjuring dialogue between my characters; When driving to work, I'm allotting them quirks and strengths. They're constantly with me — transparent, unfinished creations milling about in this personal universe in which I play God.

I treasure any and every moment my hands are given release against the weight of my laptop keys, to write one more scene, to give them one more reason to do what they do. 

And I have started to see people as characters. Old Mr. Wadlock, down the street, picks his newspaper up every morning with a cup of coffee in one hand and an apple in the other. The contradiction intrigues me. Good Mrs. Murdock takes an evening walk alone along the canal, wearing the most boyish sneakers with a delicate french shawl. I wonder who she would have been in my novel. Last night, I toyed with killing off one of my main characters; he protested and we're currently at an impasse.

© 2011 by Rachel Lowry. All rights Reserved. 

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