I see dead people. They don’t know they’re dead.* Or, rather, they don’t know they’re not real. They talk to me, tell me about their goals and dreams and fears, then ask me to sort it out for them. Help them get there. Get over it. Get through to him/her/them. Get payback. Get in. Get out.
That’s the task laid at my feet. Can you help me? I can try. They are, after all, my creation. It’s all in my head. These imaginary people leading imaginary lives with their imaginary hopes and problems. It’s the writer’s duty to breathe life into it all. Sort it out. Do justice to them. Do right by them. Help them get there, get over it, get through to him/her/them, get payback, get in, or out.
Sometimes it works and everyone lives happily ever after. Or miserably. Depends. Sometimes it’s a dud and what they’ve given me doesn’t add up. Something’s missing and won’t reveal itself. They’re shells and resist being more. They are lost and determined not to alter course. Some are cut-and-dried, some take time, but you know the ones who are worth it really are worth the trip there and back.
Writing. The life of a puppet master. Never let the strings show.
*The Sixth Sense
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