I try to avoid too much analysis of my personal affairs here, but tonight I think I have a relevant thought pertaining to my most recent noveling endeavor.
I was cast in a challenging role in a play here in town, and I'm excited and terrified. Excited because I finally have the chance to test all the theory from classes and observing other directors. But the girl playing my daughter is incredibly talented, and I don't want her to be stuck acting opposite a line-reading, phony schmuck who thinks screaming and crying is good acting.
I'm terrified to dig deep enough to find the real tears that I believe are necessary in portraying this character. Christine should cry. I should cry. But I can't fake it. I was never good at faking anything. I have to trust myself to act the part.
Alright--insecurities aside. What does this all have to do with the novel?
The fiercest obstacle for me has always been developing conflict strong enough to motivate my characters. Being brave enough to hurt them is difficult for me. Bad things happen in life. I'm just the kind of person who swallows my tears and ignores those things. "If you believe things are better, happier, brighter, then they will be." I need to accept that my life is not perfect, accept that Christine's life is not perfect, accept that Evelyn's life is not perfect, have a good cry, and do what I can to deal with the situation. That's a scary thing to do.
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