One of my favorite new generation of writers dropped this quote to me from some old G.
“Create a strong character and a story will build itself around the character.”
I thought on that shit more then a minute and then gave up the pursuit. Then one evening or some time in between work and daylight dreaming I saw a man wake up in a open grave on witching hour. I heard his thoughts as I wrote them down.
– Fucking hell. Images of two dark harpies standing over me flashed in my mind. To that moment to that hour. My life ended under the full glow of mother moon’s smile.
This was it. My death. My own blood and shame pooled around me in the dirt. In the shit. On a night of my wedding anniversary when mother moons tears covered my face. Power drained from me. The call of the moon did not lend itself to my soul. I felt real rain hit my face and I realized with shock and dismay. I was still alive. I opened my eyes to hell. –
The story? No my dude. The story doesn’t matter. I didn’t create a story. I wondered into the life moments of a character that was telling me a moment or time in his current story. The world? Fuck all I know. I learn about that shit as he teaches me through his encounters with the locals.
It’s his world. The mystery is who he is. The mystery is why is he telling me this shit. The mystery is what kind of man is he. What lessons can he teach.
Think about that. Those kind of stories fuck with me but I find myself drawn into the world deeply with a real character whose thoughts and actions aren’t so simple or motives so easy to understand even to himself at times. That’s what I love about books and writing.