I have officially shed blood for my book. This isn't some ain't-writing-a-slog metaphorical blood--we're talking honest-to-god hemoglobin. There I was innocently re-reading with an eye toward the next draft when--bam! The fucker bit me.
In all fairness, this heinous attack may not have been entirely unprovoked. During a writing class last night, I might have comically eulogized my decision to demote one of my point of view characters. And while I'll admit I should have done it out of the book's earshot, I certainly gave Maura (said demoted character) a fair trial. But after spending two long nights deliberating until three in the morning, the evidence was clear--Maura had to go.
But Maura's a fickle bitch. I should know. I made her. So I guess her vindictive streak shouldn't exactly surprise me, but here in the real world, we get a little blindsided when figments of out imaginations go for blood. Inspiring sweat? Sure. Frustrating us to tears? you betcha! But characters leaping from the page and drawing blood? That's the realm of Stephen King's The Dark Half, isn't it?
Maybe not.
I want to take the high road, here--I really do. Particularly given I'm human and
Maura's just paper and ink. But the bitch cut me, man! Right across the tip of my favorite finger! And messing with a writer's typing fingers? That ain't right, yo!So Maura? Here's my bandaged salute. This shit is so on.
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