Oct 16

Grin and Bare It

I’m never more aware that I’m a day closer to death than when I’m melting like a freakish human dummy in House of Wax. Burning on the inside and drenched by sweat on the outside, I have zero tolerance for the slightest touch. Hands off! Don’t come near me. I’m about to self-combust. After all, what other purpose do damnable hot flashes serve than to dry up my internal organs until I disappear into a puff of smoke? One day, I may very well be reduced to a pile of dust. In an instant.

You men and younger ladies already have some idea of what we middle-aged women deal with. You’ve seen us trying to minimize contact with anything that restrains heat in our bodies. Off go our sweaters as we scoot to the edge of our seats and make more room for air flow. We could stand, but physical activity takes too much effort and makes us feel hotter.

KellyDeadwood-2015-10Oct-Dog2

A Smilebox photo by Kelly Bixby

Some of us are convinced that even the slightest amount of energy we expend in fanning ourselves may work against our attempts to snuff out the raging infernos. Desperate, we become as still as possible and resort to heavy panting—a technique perfected by dogs to cool down. We endure and survive, but in the heat of the moment, we are not glamorous at all.

We mature women have to figure out what we’re willing to do to minimize our discomfort. Exposing one of my solutions may be TMI. Let me just say that I’m often tempted to create a new Twitter hashtag: #HalfNakedAndWriting. Don’t worry, though, moms and dads (particularly mine). I won’t go public with that, because I don’t want to grab the attention of seedy characters hoping to find a provocative picture attached to the description. Instant popularity isn’t worth dealing with a bunch of stalkers. It would be nice, however, to commiserate with other women writers who have reached this milestone in the aging process.

Having lived with this curse for several years, I’d like to share some of the things I’ve learned. Men, I promise not to leave you out. Bear with me while I first explain why commonly recommended treatments are associated with long-term health risks. Then, I’ll reveal how you can safely help the woman you love to alleviate her symptoms.

Popular methods to reduce hot flashes can be detrimental to our health. For instance, a product called Estroven touts that it is “drug-free and estrogen-free***.” Truth in advertising perhaps, but connect those three asterisks to the information hidden in the fine print:

“***Estroven does not contain synthetic, animal or human-derived hormones.”

It sounds great, as if you’re completely avoiding the hormone estrogen. Except, if you keep researching, you’ll find that soy, a plant-based product, is listed as Estroven’s first and, therefore, most abundant ingredient, under none other than the title of “Warnings.”

What could be so bad about soy that it falls under a warning? Ingesting soy affects the levels of estrogen in our bodies and may play a role in a woman’s increased chance of developing breast cancer. In the article “Soy and Breast Cancer, What’s the Link?,” WebMD journalist Salynn Boyles reported:

“The concern about soy stems from the fact that most breast cancers are fueled by the female sex hormone estrogen. Just as the body produces estrogen, so do plants, and soy contains high amounts of estrogen-like chemicals called isoflavones. The research is unclear about how these plant-based estrogens impact the body’s own estrogen levels and breast cancer growth.” (1)

My own gynecologist recommends black cohosh as an acceptable option to reduce hot flashes. It’s known by many other names,  most notably phytoestrogen. Surely any and all of those must be safe or my doctor wouldn’t suggest the herbal supplement in the first place?

Not necessarily. Scientists are still battling to determine if herbal supplements increase or decrease a woman’s chance of developing breast cancer. Boyles interviewed Dana Farber Cancer Center oncologist, Wendy Chen, MD, for an expert explanation. Chen indicated:

“A link between breast cancer and hormones is clear. Researchers think that the greater a woman’s exposure to the hormone estrogen, the more susceptible she is to develop breast cancer. Estrogen tells cells to divide; the more the cells divide, the more likely they are to be abnormal in some way, possibly becoming cancerous. We tell women with breast cancer to definitely avoid the [soy] supplements….Our message to the general public is that we really don’t know if supplements are safe because they haven’t been tested.”

Additionally, the American Heart Association concluded:

“The efficacy and safety of soy isoflavones for preventing or treating cancer of the breast…are not established; evidence from clinical trials is meager and cautionary with regard to a possible adverse effect. For this reason, use of isoflavone supplements in food or pills is not recommended.” (2)

We can opt not to take it in pill form, but have you noticed how prevalent soy is in our food products? Soy may be inherently natural, but it is unnaturally processed and added to many popular snack foods. It’s in M & Ms, granola bars, Oreos, chocolate covered raisins and pretzels, graham crackers, and gourmet popcorn. Sadly, all of which I have in my cupboard. Take a look in your own pantry and read a label or two. If soy is in your packaged food, you may see it noted as a type of warning in big bold print: “Contains: Soy.”

Men, there is no denying that your bodies have a little estrogen in addition to your much more abundant testosterone levels. Unknowingly, you may be taking in more estrogens through the foods you eat and even in the water you drink. I don’t want to cause anyone undue worry, but there is evidence that you also are at risk from environmentally introduced estrogens. (Take a look at environmentalhealthnews.org.)

One in eight women, and one in one thousand men, will be diagnosed with breast cancer. After being hit with that devastation—and too late in my opinion—many will be advised to avoid eating soy altogether.

The convenience of processed food is proving not to be worth the consequences on our health. Fitness guru Jillian Michaels offered practical advice when she was interviewed by CNN. She said, “If it doesn’t come out of the ground and it didn’t have a mother, don’t put it in your mouth.” (3)

KellyDeadwood-2015-10Oct-1Spooky

Image created by Kelly Bixby, using Rhonna Designs

How bad must a woman’s symptoms be for her to adopt the use of steroidal estrogens? They are Known To Be Human Carcinogens!  The National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences (NIEHS) reports that its “National Toxicology Program has listed six substances in its Report on Carcinogens (RoC)  that cause or may cause breast cancer in humans. These include: diethylstilbestrol, a synthetic form of estrogen that was used to prevent miscarriages; steroidal estrogens used for menopausal therapy; X-ray and gamma radiation; alcoholic beverages; tobacco smoking; and the sterilizing agent, ethylene oxide.” (4)

Do you read that above list and find it easy to accept that tobacco smoking may cause breast cancer? We’ve been bombarded with that knowledge for decades. Now the evidence is showing that using estrogens is risky and that we should think twice before indulging in a glass of wine. Ugh!

What can women do to get through an uncomfortable hot flash? Here are my top three recommendations:

• Embrace the fan. Based on my own experience, the instantly gratifying relief is worth the extra kilojoules, and there are many free or inexpensive options to choose from. When at home, junk mail serves as a great go-to device. Out grocery shopping? Pick up a weekly advertisement on your way into the store. Attending service? The church bulletin is handed right to you. Everywhere you go, proactively scan your immediate surroundings for emergency use of any decent cardstock. Or, channel Scarlett O’Hara and invest in something fancy and foldable. Still worried about expending too much energy? Pack a small, battery-operated fan in your purse.

• Dress in layers. Be prepared to strip down as far as public decency allows. Store your big, bulky sweaters at the bottom of the closet, and donate anything that has to be pulled over your head. Camis are the only exception, especially if you have teenagers at home. They don’t want to see you running around in anything less. Invest in clothing that has buttons or zippers all the way up and down. You’re worth an updated wardrobe.

• Rely on the man in your life. He can help with a short-term fix. Tilt your head to one side, lean in close to him, and enjoy a soothing moment as your significant other gently blows on your neck. It won’t take long for you to cool down, smile, and feel more connected to the one you love. Once you’ve relaxed—and if you and your spouse are lucky enough to be home alone when a hot flash strikes—consider the advantages to shedding all restrictive clothing.***

I think you may find that there’s nothing more natural, worry-free, and satisfying.
——————————–
***Proceed with caution; squelching one fire may ignite an entirely different one.

Notes:
(1) http://www.webmd.com/breast-cancer/features/soy-effects-on-breast-cancer?page=2
(2) http://circ.ahajournals.org/content/113/7/1034.full
(3) http://edition.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0901/03/hcsg.01.html
(4) http://www.niehs.nih.gov/health/assets/docs_a_e/environmental_factors_and_breast_cancer_risk_508.pdf

Additional Resource:
Breast cancer in men

Oct 15

Wages

– Wages –

By Jon Reed

Once upon a time, companies paid employees by handing them paper checks issued by a payroll department every other Friday afternoon. Not surprisingly, attendance was higher those days, much to the irritation of management. Except, of course, if Michigan’s first day of deer season fell on a November 15th Friday, few employees showed up at all. Paper checks were standard before computers existed and commercial banks had improved electronic abilities. Handing over pay to civilian workers was a little different than the United States military pay system for servicemen at the time.

After enlisting in the United States Air Force, I discovered the difference. At the end of our second week in basic military training, we were lined up to receive our first pay. We had been screamed-at and harangued for so long, we were being handed cash for belonging to the military. Standing under a broiling sun, surrounded by snakes and scorpions, it was quite bizarre for a young man at the time. We were paid something like $30 in greenbacks, although memory fails after so long. It worked out to about 600 hours or five-cents an hour, somewhat less than my salary as an engineer only a few weeks before.

Sergeant Tough Guy sat with an open cash box on a card table. Near his right hand lay a loaded M1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic pistol pointing right at us. I suppose it was meant to prevent foolish people from making a grab for the money. I had no idea whether the gun would go off if the card table collapsed, but I’m sure it would have put a large hole through several trainees with a single round. Oddly, there is no history of anyone robbing a Lackland Air Force basic military training cash box.

Of course, with $30 to spend every two weeks, like everyone else I had no idea what to do with it because there was no place and nothing to spend it on. The Post Exchange only sold toiletry articles, chewing gum, magazines, and souvenir United States Air Force tee-shirts. No one wanted more souvenirs than bad memories of crawling through live-fire training ranges under barbed wire and mines exploding to keep things interesting. No, we had enough souvenirs, thank you. Returning to civilian life after the military, I was glad our company didn’t line us up for our pay every other Friday with a loaded .45 pointed in our direction.

But it changed in the early-seventies when we were informed wages would henceforth be automatically transferred to us in a new Direct Deposit Program without worrying about lost time and paperwork costs. A week before the new program was to begin, my wife and I discussed the changes it would bring. We decided to split our responsibilities so she could manage most of it. Thursday afternoon before the program began, I called home and she said, “We need some cash for the weekend. Can you stop at the bank and get $180? We need two fifties, three twenties, and two tens.”

I was confused, thinking she didn’t understand the program. “Listen, it’s Thursday. We don’t get paid until tomorrow, Friday, the 15th of the month. We don’t have $180, in our account. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow night or Saturday. I can’t go today and try to take out more money than is in our account.”

“Yes, you can. The transfer to our bank takes place tomorrow morning at 12:01 am Friday. The bank cannot register a withdrawal transaction this afternoon until tomorrow and the start of Friday’s business day.” She was growing impatient. “Listen. Just tell them your wife said it’s alright. And could you pick up some clean clothes from the dry-cleaners on Michigan Avenue, afterward?”

I hung up thinking trying to withdraw money that wasn’t there couldn’t work and I would be painfully embarrassed. Besides, I’d never heard of anyone walking out of a bank with more money than they had on deposit unless they were waving a gun and chased by wailing squad cars. And what was with the dry cleaners request? How can anyone pick up dry-cleaner clothes without a ticket?

I pulled up to a teller’s window at 5:30 pm that afternoon and filled out a withdrawal slip. Minutes later, the vacuum canister whooshed away a piece of paper requesting two $50’s, three $20’s, two $10’s, along with my driver’s license. A querulous, disembodied teller’s voice came over the inter-com, embarrassed and confused, as if dealing with early dementia. “I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t seem to have enough money in your family account to cover this transaction.”

I could feel my face blushing but no one was around. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. All I could say was, “Well, we’ve just implemented a Direct Deposit Program. My wife said my salary for this pay period will be transferred to the bank at 12:01 am before the Friday business day begins … and that to tell you that it’s alright.”

There was a slight pause while this was assimilated, and I wondered whether the bank’s security personnel or city squad cars would begin arriving with wailing sirens. Instead, a sympathetic voice came back, “Oh. Well then. It’s alright then, isn’t it?” The vacuum tube whooshed and the canister came back with a clunk, complete with $180, bank slip, and driver’s license. “Have a good day, sir.”

I drove away, still wondering about the power of a wife’s permission and direction. Now greatly emboldened, I walked into the dry-cleaners shop ten minutes later and gave my name before mentioning I didn’t have a ticket to pick up our clothes. But my wife had said it was alright. The owner gave me a long look and shrugged, before I paid the bill and he handed over the clothes. As I put them in the trunk, I realized I was set for life; all I had to do from then on was say, “My wife says it’s all right” and I could get away with most anything.

Oct 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 4 – The Ex-Boyfriend

Saint moved toward the front door, hobbled on one foot getting his second boot on just as a thump had him turning toward the noise. A disheveled Sienna stumbled over a step coming down the stairs as she turned on a light. He blinked and adjusted to the brightness. When he got a look at Sienna he couldn’t help but glance up and down hanging a couple extra seconds on the legs that kept going and going. Her dress she still wore from last night was rumpled. It clung to her and pulled to one side leaving the mounds of her breasts almost indecent. She didn’t have a lot going on there but, he thought, what she did have held up very well. He licked his lips then frowned. Saint thought he would just check to see if Sienna was okay this morning and leave, but seeing her all disheveled and sleepy had him thinking otherwise.

He smiled and tried to stifle a laugh. Sienna’s hair stuck up every which way. Joining the disarray, Saint watched her hazy sleep-glazed eyes clear when she finally looked up and saw he stood in her living room. Her eyes widened and her mouth decided to go for the guppy look. She quickly shut her mouth and looked like she would say something else, but she didn’t have a chance.

“Sienna!  Did you change the fucking locks? Open this goddamned door? We need to work this out.”

Sienna’s hand covered her mouth and she whispered, “Layton,” over the barrage of bangs.

Bang, bang, bang! “Sienna, come on baby. I’m sorry.” The doorknob rattled.

Bang! Sienna turned to look at the clock as did Saint. 7:00 A.M. Bang! Saint moved. Sienna gripped his shirt. “I’ll get it,” she said. Bang!

“Sienna!” Saint could hear the desperation and an underlying anger in the man’s words.

Her shoulders had slumped and her cheeks reddened. “Sorry,” she whispered. She turned on the porch light and mumbled sorry again.

Saint shook his head. Sienna went to move past him, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back, his fingers spreading across her muscled torso. Sienna gasped as Saint opened the door to a very irate ex-boyfriend. He gripped her even closer. The corner of his eye began to twitch when he looked down on a much shorter, blond haired, pointy nosed, ass-hat, who looked more like a polo-playing pansy.

“Why’s my shit on the lawn, Sie…?” Layton stopped moving when he saw Saint.

Saint’s fingers flexed on Sienna’s hip and he felt her flinch. He loosened his hold.

“Who the hell are you?”

Sienna stiffened at the question. “None of your business, Layton.” Her nose flared with her next inhale. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I broke up with you.” Sienna began to shake. He didn’t know if it was fear or anger, but Saint had had enough of this asshole.

“Take your stuff and go,” Saint said.

Layton made a move toward Sienna.

No fucking way! Saint twisted Sienna around to his back to shield her from Layton.  He took a step toward Layton as he let go of Sienna.

“Take your shit and leave, man. Sienna doesn’t want you here.”

Layton’s brows drew down as his gaze teetered between Saint and Sienna. His hands fisted and his eyes zeroed back on Sienna. “Sienna, we can work this out.”

Saint heard Sienna suck in a breath. He looked over his shoulder. Her whole body had gone taut, fingers clenched and her face reddened. Her breaths came long and deep, as if she tried to trap her anger. He saw it coming when she lifted her head. He spun around, grabbed her by the waist, and then hugged her close.

“Saint, step back,” she said through pinched lips. He looked into her eyes, searching. He did as she asked. Reluctantly.

Her voice shook when she spoke, just as a line of flame broke the darkness the sun rising over the horizon. “What makes you think I want anything to do with you, Layton?” Her voice vibrated with unleashed anger.

Layton took a step up the porch. Saint moved to block him, but Sienna got to him first. He didn’t get in her way.

She jabbed Layton in the chest with her finger. “You were the one that told me you loved me, that we’d be together forever! You were the one I found fucking another woman! In my bed!  So, don’t stand there and think you can make this up to me, when you were the one who betrayed me.” Her voice cracked. “Go back to Jenny! Or the other bitch you had on the side.”

Saint watched Layton’s eye flash.

Saint thought that would be enough to get the guy to go, but Layton made a desperate grab for Sienna.

With lightning speed, Saint grabbed Layton’s outstretched arm, twisted it behind his back. Layton winced and Saint pushed Layton down the porch stairs. Layton stumbled and tried to pull away, but Saint locked the guys arm in place. When he knew that Sienna was a safe distance away, Saint pushed Layton toward his vehicle, a Porsche SUV.

Layton backed up quickly, righting himself, as Saint crossed his arms and waved the asshole on. “You heard her.”

Layton wasn’t into clues. He moved to mount the stairs again. Saint blocked him.

“Let me by asshole,” Layton.

“No.”

He tried it again. Saint pushed back and Layton took a swing at him. Air glanced off Saint’s hair as he ducked Layton’s swing and returned fire with a jab to the ribs. Layton bent at the waist and grabbed the impact point.

“Layton! Go! Just go,” Sienna screamed. Saint turned to look at Sienna. Silent tears streaked her pretty face. The twitch at his eye got worse. Sad, and or pissed, Sienna didn’t deserve to be either.

Layton lunged.

Saint smiled, and said to himself, I’m done, as Layton punched more air in front of his face. In one move, Saint jabbed him hard with an uppercut, tripped him and pushed him to the ground. Layton tried to get back up but Saint planted one big boot into Layton’s chest and pressed his heel under the rib cage, and ground it down. Layton gasped for air. He heard Sienna calling, pleading for him to stop. He eased up on his foot but didn’t move back. “Get your shit and get out.”

Saint looked over at the lawn strewn with boxes and piles of clothes and waited.

“Sienna,” Layton groaned and coughed as he brought himself standing again. “Jenny doesn’t mean anything. Come on, baby. This is fixable. I love you.” Layton moved toward Sienna. Saint moved with him blocking his way.

Saint watched Layton’s eyes track back to him. Yeah, that’s it, Saint thought. Focus on me.

“Who the fuck is this guy, Sienna?” Layton questioned. She ignored him and finally stepped back into her house. “Sienna? Dammit!”

“I would seriously consider, picking up all your stuff, putting it in that shit-tastic ride of yours, and getting off Sienna’s property.”

“Or what?” Layton snaps.

“Or what?” Saint said his voice all too calm. Layton’s eyes went round and bled white when Saint got right in his face, grabed Layton’s shirt, and growled. “I’ll unleash my kind of crazy. The kind where there won’t be enough of you left for anyone to even care.”

The air was thick and crackled with tension when Layton snarled, “Fuck you,” twisted away, and started packing his car.

Saint waited a beat, then followed Sienna into the house and found her standing at the window. He got close but didn’t touch.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here,’ Sienna said.

The silence was heavy and then Saint said, “What’d you see in that asshole?”

She shrugged. “My future.” She took a shaky breath. “I guess he didn’t see the same thing.”

“Hmm,” the sound his only response.

Saint stood next to Sienna, his blood humming with adrenaline as they watched Layton load the last box. Layton turned and glared at them both before he got into his Porsche and drove away. Saint laughed and shook his head. When the taillights disappeared, Saint turned, and looked into Sienna’s eyes. They flared, became hooded with desire.  His body reacted.

Saint took Sienna by the shoulders crowding into her space, his hips almost aligning with her smaller ones. His hand moved down, the tips of his fingers touching the skin exposed by her dress to brush back and forth across her naked collarbone. Sienna tried to move back but his other hand held her in place. She shivered and her breath came in small pants. He smiled. She didn’t want him to let her go. His fingers continued to meander higher up and around until they combed through her tangled locks several times where they finally took hold and stopped, her neck tilted back in his soft grip. His mouth so close now he could feel her breath dance along his lips.  “You know what?”

“What,” she replied?

“He’s blind too.”

Oct 08

Diary of a Binge Reader

Donna Tartt’s, The Goldfinch, hijacked my social life for the past two weeks. And consequently, my life as a binge reader emerged once again.

For months, I can exist perfectly content on my diet of short stories. Then, the unwieldy novel finds me unsatisfied in my 5000 word count stories, lures me to a world of plots with multiple characters and offers a new captivating world to enjoy and forget the everyday mundane. The process begins innocently enough — an evening hour in a big chair with my feet up, a chapter instead of dinner, an alarm set earlier to read before breakfast, and eventually the pages of a 784 page tome reluctantly parted across my sleeping self — until in the middle of the night, the book falls, thudding loudly against the floor, startling the dog who barks and wakes the household and next door neighbors.

How does this happen to me? I confess a predilection for Donna Tartt’s brand of storytelling. Is Tartt’s magic the plot or the theme? A diagram from the NY Book Editors shows themes of prize winning novels in 2014. The Goldfinch won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize and contains many of the plot lines of prize-winning novels: unlikely friendships, betrayal, terrorism, death, theft, school days, running away, criminal gangs, love and suicide. Other winning plots include less appealing topics: cannibalism, East London, homicidal cowboy brothers, an escaped tiger, horniness, jazz, nanny trust issues, a mysterious letter, Totalitarian Bucharest, and war. As to plot, Tartt chose well except I am intrigued by the cowboy idea.

Screenshot 2015-10-02 23.18.45The NY Book Editors post also includes speculation on what makes an interesting story. The answer is a good story arc. Larry Brooks’ Story Engineering also covers these topics along with a bevy of books about story structure. In “Writing Fiction Like a Pro” by Steve Alcorn, the classic three act structure includes nine dramatic elements. For the elements, I included a sketch by fellow writer and classmate, Mame Zirro.

Act 1 introduces the characters, the setting and the story. Through The Goldfinch’s adolescent narrator, Theo, the reader meets his mother and learns the critical backstory. The trigger is the plot point that propels the protagonist into Act 2. It is also called the inciting incident or the door that the character passes through that cannot be undone. Theo’s plot point occurs after the museum explosion. Surrounded by debris, Theo meets Welty and follows his advice. With his mother missing and his theft of a famous masterpiece, he cannot go back to his former life.

Act 2 is the middle of the story. Our boy, Theo, is in crisis – dead mother, abandoned by his father, nowhere to go, no one to turn to, stolen painting, and dead man’s ring. Imagine a horizontal graph of time. After the beginning first act, the middle second act extends for the bulk of the novel. In the case of The Goldfinch, Act 2 is 400-500 pages of Theo’s escalating struggles with his friend’s family, his father’s return, his misadventures in Las Vegas and his betrayal of father-figure Hobart.

Act 2 ends with another plot point. This time the story veers in an unexpected direction. Act 3 is the shortest in duration and the highest point of tension. While Act 2 concentrated on the emotional story and struggles of the protagonist, Act 3 is all plot. Theo is older and burdened by his theft and loss of the famous Fabritius painting of The Goldfinch. His epiphany guides him to a new course of action, a solution for the greater good and his final plan to save the painting, actually several plans, since nothing in a Tartt novel will work the first time. The climax ends where the story began in Amsterdam. I will leave the ending untold for future readers to enjoy. Suffice it to say, Act 3 resolves Theo’s many problems.

The three act structure probably has as many critics as Donna Tartt. Some argue for more than three acts and others for less, such as the simplicity of creating a problem and resolving a problem. The internet displays diagrams of pinch points and new takes on structure with grids, circles and even circus tents. As for Donna Tartt, even the literary crowd disagrees on whether this is a fabulous adult novel or a Harry Potter-esque children’s book. Reviews on Goodreads offer accounts of unfinished readings (no doubt from quitters, wimps and lightweights) in contrast to exhilarating comments about the plot and characters.

For this novel with a massive three act structure, my vote is yes. Read it. But don’t drop it on your foot. Don’t try to fit it in your backpack or purse. And don’t drop it in the middle of the night unless you want to risk a call to 911 from the neighbors.

Oct 06

Frustration

“Writing: Somewhere between torture and fun.” – The Write Practice

“I just sit at my typewriter and curse a bit.” — P.G. Wodehouse

Frustration

My current project, an historical novel, started as a short story written during a creative writing class. The sudden death of an important, but minor, character propelled the scenes to a heartbreaking conclusion. After reading my final version aloud, I looked up to see tears flowing from the eyes of several classmates. Pleased that my work received the emotional response I desired, I shelved the story with no plans for further development.

For several years the characters continued to invade my thoughts insisting I reveal more about their lives. I finally relented and gave them proper historical names, added more dialogue, and expanded their storyline. My short story became the catalyst, but not the beginning, of a novel.

The words spilled onto the pages for months until suddenly the plot stalled because my characters rebelled at the direction I took them. The character who died now wanted a more significant role than originally planned. This character asked for, no, demanded to be resurrected to find a place in this world, to see the changing seasons, to experience adventures, to feel loved.

This frustrated me because that character’s inclusion changed the entire plot forcing me to do more research to add authenticity to the details.

Call me crazy if you wish, but I now believe what some writers have said about their characters talking to them. The characters know their story better than I do. After all, it is their story, not mine. I’m only the storyteller or historian whose job it is to simply tell their story in a convincing, thought provoking way.

Do your characters speak to you? If so, do you listen? Have you changed a storyline to accommodate your characters’ desires?