I’m having a ridiculous day. Or night, rather. I guess listening to Zella Day in complete darkness (except for a laptop screen standing in for a flashlight) will do that to a person. I’m trying to get into a good writing headspace, and this camping vibe isn’t bad. Not camping exactly, more like “staying up past my bedtime”. I guess the idea is, if I’m not allowed to write, I will. Staying up to write or read a book is much more fun if you aren’t supposed to. It’s a unique thrill that comes without having to do anything dangerous whatsoever. I think grown-ups are missing out. The dynamic at my house may have shifted, in that my parents crash first, and I’m frequently the one turning out lights and locking up, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still turn out the lights in my room and use a flashlight anyway.
My main character and I are having a fight. I insist she’s two dimensional and doesn’t have any effect on the events unfolding around her. She insists that her two-dimensionality and blandness is my fault, and that it was my dumb idea to have a hero that really doesn’t do anything in the first place. Maybe I was watching Indiana Jones or something. The very nerve. She has no respect.
If only someone else were writing this book. I’d like to read it. I like the general idea of it, I just don’t know what I’m doing. But I do get the feeling I’m doing it wrong. I may delete Emma. Who needs her. Now for the next problem, in basing Bobbi off a handful of stories I was told about my dad’s great aunt, have I limited her potential?