Murder, She Writes

I have a challenge when I write.

I’m writing along, and I hear something I dread. My fingers pause. A lumpy troll crawls out from under the imagination bridge with a low growl. The troll smells terrible, like rotting broccoli and decaying crabs. The troll drops down in the middle of the road, growling and pounding boulder fists.

I’m stuck

I can’t think!

It seems silly, really . . .

No, I mean it.

The troll creator? Me! My problem is that I’m not mean enough. I’m too nice . . . a people pleaser if you please. I create a character, a protagonist I plan on sticking with for the duration of the writing project. Someone I come to know, to understand. Someone I like. Not a troll.

A good story has conflict. Or, one could argue a story must have conflict or it isn’t a story.

I grow to like my character so much, I don’t want anything bad to happen. No, I’m not kidding! This makes for a rather dull story, with or without trolls.

I apologize to my character. “You are about to face the most challenging experience in your made-up existence. This will test you in ways you never thought possible. You will endure experiences that will push you to the limit of your strengths–intellectual, emotional, physical. Yes, I am going to make you go through this! In the end, however, you will find yourself transformed in a way that makes you a much stronger person and provides the readers of this book a chance to experience this with you and feel your triumph in the end.”

This isn’t an easy sell. The character complains; they cry. I cry. I feel guilty, but I push forward for the good of the story.

I nudge that lumpy, stinky troll of stuck-ness off the road. The story moves on.

In the end, we’re better off. The character’s journey has twists and drops; hairpin turns and high vistas; chocolate nights and spun gold days. The story ends, and the road appears for the next adventure. The troll slumbers under the bridge.

The bridge on Channel Road in December