It’s late, I’m tired, and I may be crazy, but I’m going to put this out there anyway just for kicks. Do what you will with it.
As a novelist, part of my writing process involves reading completed scenes aloud in order to ensure that the dialog is realistic. That is nothing extraordinary. Many authors do it. But the conversations are often worked out in my head long before the words ever hit the page. This usually involves finding a quiet place to sit and… well… talk to myself. Now, I have heard people say that you can talk to yourself as long as you don’t start to answer back. Even if that’s the case, I’m still in trouble. I frequently talk back, yell back, and even swear back—all in a British accent. I don’t suppose it will help my cause to admit that I was born in Toledo, Ohio to parents of German and Polish ancestry.
As if what I have just told you is not enough to question my sanity, this morning I came to the realization that I may be truly certifiable. As I said before, I have to find a quiet place to talk, and often that sanctuary is in my car. So, this morning, as I drove to work, I began playing out a particularly emotional bit of conversation. I didn’t notice any of the other drivers staring at stop lights. They probably just thought I was talking on the phone. (Yes. I’m sure that’s it.) But, I did notice that about ten minutes into it, I was forced to remove my glasses and wipe tears from my eyes. Yes. That’s right. While driving to work, I allowed myself to get so worked up over my characters’ conversation that I actually made myself cry!
I’d like to tell you that it’s all just a completely natural part of the creative process, but I’m not so sure. I mean, really… I was so wrapped up in the stories in my own head that I broke into tears in my car on the drive to work. Can that possibly be normal? Can you imagine walking into the office with red puffy eyes and having to explain it to your boss—or in my case to a bunch of teenagers?
“Ms. Thompson, are you okay? Did you have an accident or something?”
“No, Billy. I was just imagining that I was a forty-five year old British woman who finds out the love of her life is…”
I’ll just stop right there because there is no way that conversation is not going to end badly!
Friends and fellow authors, cast your vote. Can I chalk it all up to technique, or am I technically crazy? Just for fun, click “like” for technique and “share” for technically crazy. We’ll see who wins.