Writing is very hard work. It is very lonely work. I don’t know a single writer alive who, in the midsts of a tough section of a story, thinks that the work is fun. I am not having fun with this present story. I’m writing what in essence is a cozy mystery. I’ve never written one, and I’ve always wanted to do it. Here I am in the midsts of that opportunity and I am struggling.
The problem is always the same. It is not the form or function or purpose or any of that. It is the character. If I have not fully descended into the skin of a character then the story is going to be poop. Instead of trying to really get into this character I find myself blaming the victim (of the crime) and the suspects. It really is not their fault. I do need to know more about them and their motives in order to make them feel real, but I need to be one with the protagonist for this thing to work at all. I’m not there yet.
This is a shorter piece, and one that is already dreadfully behind, so I need to get cracking on it. I expect a chapter tomorrow and one each day after until I am finally done.
That all begins with writing about this protagonist and getting into that character’s skin.