When Your Characters Lead Your Story


Character-driven stories are always the best kind of stories.

I don’t talk to my characters (I swear!), but they do control my story more than I might let on. Characters, though fictional, are fully fleshed out people living in your universe of fiction writing if writing is what you live and breathe every day. If you’re serious about your craft, I think that you should be strongly connected with all of your characters. I might take this a step further.

I confess that often, it really is my characters that decide the direction that they will go in a story. I have heard of a few writers admit to this as well. Some writers whose blogs I have read think that this level of thinking is weird/wrong and that they as writers are always fully in control of their stories. The latter type of thinking seems too mechanical for me. I prefer to think of writing as a way to tell the stories of the people who exist in one realm of my fantasy universe.

Of course I am the one writing my story, but as a writer, I am not living this life fully on my own. These characters exist in my rich inner world and they have influence over how I write them. Writing totally is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. Maybe this weirds you out. Perhaps you disagree. That’s okay, too. There are many different types of writers. This is how I work.

My characters do have minds of their own and I have changed the direction of nearly every story I have written because they disagreed with the direction that I was taking them in. Sometimes, I stress out about this disagreement and I hesitate to write their fate in a way that I originally planned not to.

Writing is supposed to be fun. Write what makes you want wake up in the wee hours of the morning just to finish that next chapter. Write what causes you to lay in bed at night thinking about your characters. Write something you’re passionate about.

If that means that you talk to your characters or if that means that you let your characters choose certain paths for themselves, then let it be.

Writers, do you ever feel a character pulling you in the opposite direction of where you want them to go? Do you feel them have a mind of their own? Do you think all of this is simply weirdness? 

(Photo Source: http://www.everystockphoto.com by Shandi-lee)

Write, Little Girl, For Ye Know Not When


Waiting for me with a steaming tea. Warm eyes, shy smile, dark hair, strong character. Or so he said.

Holding my hand with reassuring words. Numbness melted away to hope. I submitted to trust.

We laughed, we shared, we planned. I awoke to his warmth. He borrowed my story.

He left.

He reappeared in the form of pictures, memories, nightmares. I cannot escape, but I write.

Once I saw him and his eyes flickered blue as he stared at me. I wondered if I would awaken one day to him killing me.

I write. Poison is not always physical.

Write little girl, for ye know not when death’s final grip shall drag you to her cold, final den.

The Fascinator Pt V


On Friday night, I received an express delivery to my front door.

“From Prince Edward Island, Miss,” said the post rider.

“Thank you!” I nearly squealed.

I tore the letter from its paper prison, but my uneasy feelings flew away at Dauvit’s greetings.

My Dear Zara,

I expect to receive your photograph soon, but for now, I can think of our good memories. You really are so fascinating to me and I love that you are smart and have an opinion. It is only a bonus that you have beautiful eyes and impeccable legs. 

You would love the summer house, by the way. I hope that this is not too forward, but I miss you already. 

Yours Truly, 


The next morning, I went into town to purchase a few necessities. I stopped in the middle of the road, mesmerized suddenly at the fact that I had Dauvit actively pursuing me, and we had already experienced such amazing things – not to mention his secretive world. I had been so wrapped up in our moments together, that I had not allowed myself to ponder about what this world was and what it meant to our current world nearly as much as I should have.


I turned to see a familiar face across the road. Bekka was waving at me. Every time I hoped to think on the fantasy realm, realism pulled me away.

“Why are you standing in the middle of the road?” she cried.

I laughed and ran over to greet her. It was a relief to have someone to walk around town with for a change. We went to the market, looked at some jewellery, and then to a flower shop. Seeing such beautiful things on display helped settle my nerves about Dauvit. Though he was obvious in his affections toward me, a part of me still worried for something bad to happen.

“What do you mean something bad will happen?” asked Bekka with a frown, while we both waved down a coach.

A cab pulled by a distinguished chestnut mare stopped for us. Once we were inside, I sighed. “It is not that I think something bad will happen, but I worry.”

“It wouldn’t make sense for a man to write you the moment that he arrives at his vacation house, and he also asked for your picture, too. You needn’t worry, Zara.”

“You’re right,” I said with a smile. “I enjoyed our time together. You’re a very fun person to be around.”

The younger girl giggled. “I enjoy your company as well, you know. I need more weird friends in my life.”

I burst into laughter. “Well, I am definitely that!”

“I think you should take all of these wonderful new emotions you’re feeling and incorporate them into your work. I am no writer, but I love to read, and an author in love is a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps sometimes moreso than the melancholic ones.”

“You really think so? What an interesting thought. I always thought that a happy writer would write hogwash, but you know, I have just as much desire to write the same things that I always did, as I fall in love with Dauvit.”

“You see?” Bekka grinned. “I think you already are in love.”

The driver dropped me off at my place first. Bekka waved to me dramatically from the carriage window. It was a wonderful feeling to have spent a full day with someone kind like her, but as I stepped up to my front door, alone again, questions and concerns spun about in my mind.

“You cannot allow me to be happy, can you?” I muttered at my brain.

I sat at the table and re-read Dauvit’s letters, which brought me to happy tears again. I missed him more than I had ever missed anyone. Experience and travel seemed to make me soft, rather than thick skinned.

The rest of my weekend raced by as I wrote a new story inspired by Dauvit and then performed arduous tasks around the house. On Sunday night, I wrote Dauvit back. I had contemplated whether I should write down my questions about the other world and decided that one question would not hurt. I could not stop thinking about the miracle of discovering such a place and how amazing it was that we both had it to share with one another.

I folded and sealed the letter to him in an envelope, blew out my candle, and settled into my cool sheets. The week ahead seemed long and daunting, but perhaps I would be able to start performing dissections at the lab.

The next week dragged on a little, but speaking with Bekka at work and writing in the evenings helped keep my worries at bay. So many lovers had to be separated for months, so surely I could handle two weeks, even if I was prone to severe melancholy. I worried that he might change his mind about me after some distance. He had not been so quick to write me a second letter, considering that it was already Thursday night.

Inside my bedroom, I paced the floor, attempting to talk myself out of the panic. I fought the war of self-harm and self-harm won. I wept, longing that Dauvit was there to hold me and remind me that I was special to him. Instead, I was alone in my cool room, unsure if he could ever really love me.

I balled my fist and bashed my thighs and upper arms repeatedly, until the pain made me whimper. Exhausted, I collapsed into my bed. I fell asleep early that night.

On Friday night, I received two letters. One was from my parents and the second one was from Dauvit. Excitement and dread made my hands shake.

My Dearest Zara,

You worry too much. I told you that I would talk to you about the world at another time. I am better with speaking of such things in person, though you’re a writer, so I understand you may communicate better with written words. 

I received your photograph and you are adorable. My sister in law thinks that you are pretty. I am having a wonderful time here with my family, but I look forward to seeing you again very much.

I was hoping to call on you at your house the evening that I return, and I will sleep on the couch so as not to impose on you. Let me know if you agree. I hope your writing is going well. 

Yours Truly,


I took a deep breath. All of my remaining doubts fled. He was going to come straight to my house after his ship landed. It still felt a little too good to be true, but there was no denying how much he wanted to see me. I read the next letter, which had been written by my mother. She asked me to come home for a visit, and she included bills to pay my way back home for a week. She also said that there was a surprise package waiting for me at the postal office.

I smiled, longing to see my family again, and at my mother’s usual generosity, even though I insisted that I pay my own way. I worried about being away from Dauvit for yet another week, but it was much better than a two week separation. I would visit and have someone special to tell my family about. It would be perfect, really.

I relit my candle, sat up, and started to write. I ignored the tender bruises on my limbs.

(Photo Source: http://www.everystockphoto.com “Rain”)

The Dreamer’s Dreamworld

Most very young children are quite imaginative, but dreamers never give up their strong desire to imagine. When I was around three years old, I would swing on the swings and imagine that I was somewhere else, talking with people who did not exist. To this day, I still gravitate to a swing set so that I can pass half an hour or so immersed in my dreamworld while my body soars.

A dreamer’s inner world is very intense; it is such a key part of who we are. In the same way that many people crave conversation with their friends, family, and coworkers, a dreamer craves the freedom and the solitude to escape into the most creative depths of their mind.

In elementary school, I found it very difficult to pay attention in class, not because I had a bad attitude or because I was bored, but because of my highly imaginative mind that was difficult to control. I was often caught by my teachers daydreaming; my grades suffered due to my inability to focus and pay attention. They all assumed that it was an auditory problem and then they actually took measures to help “correct” it.

Traditional education can be a nightmare for dreamers, but somehow, most of us survive it and can end up doing well in the later years of school. In high school, we can begin to have some control over the courses that we learn about. We can improve our grades with a little bit more maturity and then focus on subjects that we actually care about.

I do not tell very many people about the fact that I have worlds that I escape to, even now. Especially now. I could never think of my fantasy prone personality as a curse or as some sort of defect. Sure, I may have a short attention span and I may not be aware of everything that goes on around me, but who would ever trade in their gift of an extraordinary imagination for the sake of being closer to normal?

Some say that there is no such thing as normal, but dreamers make the general population seem normal in comparison. I can call customers repeatedly at my day job while being somewhere else entirely. I can go for a walk, listen to music, and swing on the sings to escape from the physical world. I can think up an entire story in my head before I even have to write it down, and I can keep it stored there.

Perhaps our brain chemistry is stormy, and maybe our introverted nature gives others the impression that we have less “personality”, but if someone gets to know us, they will discover a true character hiding beneath those layers. And so this is why those who are our friends are so very special to us, because they are the ones who patiently took the time to get to know us, who could see something special there beyond our aloof, quiet exterior.

And then there are the dreamer’s imaginary friends. I have friends in other worlds. I am not going to lie and say this is solely for the purpose of my books. These friends are not characters in my stories; they are people who exist for the purpose of being with me in these alternate worlds. I realize that there is probably a type of therapy to “heal” this sort of behaviour, but I see no harm in this.

How is escaping to another reality created by your mind any worse than someone who sits in front of their TV while eating popcorn for three hours out of every evening? At least I am exercising while I live out some of my dreams in my dream world.

A dreamer living in this world can sometimes feel broken and alien when speaking with those who think on completely different paths. Even other creative writers sometimes fail to relate to a dreamer-writer. A dreamer’s writing style strives to dig into the darkest and most beautiful depths of the human condition; they hope to tell tales of redemption and healing after exposing brutal reality in their writing. We write for the people, not for the plot or for the shock value.

To dream is to live. Dream on, day dreamer.

The Editor Gift

Life can be very giving sometimes. I would have never guessed that my old boss from five years ago would drop me a line on LinkedIn to see how my writing was going. We exchanged a couple of messages and it turns out that he has published a couple of novels himself. He had been a journalist and newspaper editor before starting a couple of different companies. Lo and behold, he has offered to edit my short story for me free of charge over the next few weeks.

Editors often charge very high rates (Once I paid $1,000 to an experienced editor for a novel I chose to self-publish. I am never doing that again). Even affordable editors can be a stretch to your finances when you’re in a low paying job and trying to save money to, you know, do life. This has reminded me (And hopefully you) that networking is key in any industry for your own success, and it can save you a lot of time and cost as a writer.

So, now that I have my short story, Eve & Adam, in the hands of an editor for free, I can start to see the publishing date in the horizon. I will keep you posted on the release date for Eve & Adam.

Happy writing/editing everyone! :)

Fluid Inspiration


I’m thinking back to the times that I have been the most productive writer. I need some key factors to work in my favour if I hope to complete a novel within a matter of months.


Truth be told, I must spend a lot of time alone in order to be able to stay in tune with my story, my characters, and my inspiration. When I wrote my first two novels years ago, I would walk on my lunch breaks by the river, listening to songs that fuelled my imagination. I sacrificed forming closer relationships with my coworkers as a result, but when you’re serious about writing, then the writing comes first. Always.


A good dosage of rain is necessary for my inspiration. Some writers may find this trivial, but rain and fog are catalysts for my creativity. Sunshine is good, but too much of it actually zaps my creativity. I think one reason for this is that I’m instinctively more social when it’s warm and sunny. it kicks me out of my creative cave.


One reason why I rarely listen to popular music is because it does nothing for the type of books that I prefer to write. I need deeper, richer songs in order to thrive in my world of make believe. I think that most writers need music to spark and maintain their inspiration.


Watching films or even TV shows in the genre that I hope to write in always gets me in the writing zone, especially because I would love the opportunity to write a film script (once my writing matures!).


I can write well when I’m feeling melancholic, but when I’m feeling anxious or depressed, the process is going to suffer. This may sound weak to some people, but, regardless, in order to stay in tune with my work, I can’t have anyone or anything nagging on me. I need a stable job, a good quiet home, supportive people within reach (but not too close), and enough exercise.


Setting crosses over into a few of the aforementioned factors, but living in an area that you can appreciate aesthetically is important. Living in the mountains for the past two years has certainly been like a dream for me. Here in Western Canada, there is a good balance of rain and sun. It seems to be the perfect climate and I think that for creative people, setting means the world.

So, there we have it. I imagine some sort of “How To Care For Your Creative Writer” meme being inspired by my choosy behavior. I’ve realized how much I really do live my life based on how I feel. Such are the whims of a writer.

So, writers, what helps you to maintain some semblance of “fluid inspiration”? Or, are you able to write regularly no matter how you’re feeling?


Unearthly battle cries sound in the distance.

“Them Yankees be comin’!” one of the men in our clan shouts.

Fleeing slaves run in the direction of the river. Instead of following them, I run in the direction of the plantation house.

“Whatchu doin’ girl?” Hezekiah, who is a head taller than I and easily twice my weight, grabs me by the arm.

“I have to go back for Missy,” I tell him.

I flinch at his ferocious scowl. “You leave that witch to burn along with her pretty things. She and Massa can both go hell.”

We both know that burning would be the least of her worries, being at the mercy of looting soldiers.

“In some ways, she was just as much his slave as we were!”

He spits at me; the ball of his saliva nearly hits my muddy boot. He walks away, shaking his head. I understand his sentiment, but I cannot leave her behind.

The Yankees’ cries remind me that there is no time to lose. I sprint, quickly covering the distance to the mansion. I nearly trip up the patio stairs and then stumble into the dark bowels of the once imposing home. I race up the long staircase to her room.

Even from the hallway, I can smell her familiar perfumes and bath oils. It clashes with the aroma of my earthy, mud-covered clothes. Hushed voices cause my muscles to tense. He is in there. Master Greene. Unsheathing my dagger, I am confident that he cannot harm me now. I step inside. Missy is lying on the floor like a rag doll. Her face is gaunt; her eyes are hollow as she stares up at me in confusion.

“You came back?”

The master steps out of her closet. I try to regulate my breathing as rage strengths me.

“Stupid, stupid slave girl.”

“You don’t seem so sinister now hiding away from the Yankees in your wife’s closet!”

“Diamond, don’t,” pleads Missy.

I stare into her hazel eyes.

“If you want to spare yourself from them, run. I will catch up to you.”

Greene breaks into laughter before he lunges at me. I slash the blade of my dagger across his pale throat. I watch him choke and sputter and I wonder if I will go to hell for relishing in his death. Then again, he relished in my beatings and rape.

A cold, dainty hand pulls on mine. Missy’s innocent gaze asks me so many questions.

“We have to run and we cannot stop. Do you understand me, Missy?”

We retreat toward the ravine. For a fragile girl, she runs quite fast. The pulse in my ears is so loud that it nearly drowns out the approaching enemy’s yells. I stop at the riverbank and glare at her.

“We will have to wade across. Once we are on the other side, I ask that you only refer to me by my given name.”

She nods, averting her gaze. Her power wilts away faster than the roses of her prized gardens upon winter’s approach. I do not know how long she will last, but I have spared her from becoming a spoil of war or worse. As we submerge our bodies into the cold water, I feel a strange sense of freedom. With the invasion of the North, we are both homeless and without family. The current pushes us farther away from my hell.

Fantasy Prone Personality & Creativity


One very large section of my personality is fantasy prone. This means that I am subject to vivid day dreams and imaginings several times throughout each day. It is not an occasional occurrence. Of course, most writers and artists possess this characteristic in varying degrees. There is actually a test you can take to confirm if you have a fantasy prone personality. The thing is, some psychologists consider this to be a “disorder.”

Fantasy prone people can certainly operate under logic when necessary, but when one is on the extreme end of the spectrum of imaginative thinking, logic takes the back seat most of the time. It is wonderful for creating, but perhaps challenging in many day to day life situations. It’s a balancing act for a creative writer or artist to be able to function in the real world, while being able to embrace their highly imaginative side. They often need to be left alone with their thoughts, and distractions that tear them away from their musings can frustrate them or stress them out.


I have been thinking about something that my therapist from last year told me. It is regarding my tendency to escape to other worlds created by my own mind. I have a couple of different worlds that I am a part of. To clarify that I am not totally crazy, I am in full control of what I think and do in these worlds. I can snap out of them at any time. I can go to Narnia through the wardrobe, yet I can vanish and reappear on Earth at will. ;)

My therapist said that she finds it interesting how most people who day dream to the extent that I do often do so to escape from their current circumstances. She probed for bad childhood memories, since I told her I have been day dreaming since I’ve been around three years old – and I remember doing so to this day!

I have no bad memories as a small child that made me want to leave to another reality. In fact, my upbringing was peaceful and loving. My parents allowed me to create stories, pictures, and play with toys without ever interfering with it. I did the day dreaming just for fun, because, well, it’s another form of creation. I write stories, draw and sketch characters or animals. I have also written a musical piece. So, creating a setting that I can escape to is yet another realm that I can make use of – for future stories, for self discovery.


Now, I am not going to lie and say that I haven’t run away to my other worlds when things have gone wrong. I would often paint over embarrassing or sad situations by re-imagining them or by going to a different place with different people to make myself feel better. I still do that. But the thing is, no matter what I am going through at the time, I day dream regardless.

When I was a teenager, I often used my day dreams as a way of escapism. I imagined myself to be a braver, more exciting person than I was to the people that I went to school with. I was always physically strong in these made up world as well, with super hero qualities.


I wrote relatively little as a teen, but I drew a lot.

In my young adult years, the day dreams become a little more “realistic”. That probably sounds a little crazy.

But I no longer have “super powers” and I stick to just two worlds. I exercise a lot of my intellect rather than resorting to a sword duel or a Matrix-style fight with the antagonists. I don’t know if this can be thought of as self-inflicted therapy or not, but I am happy with how I’ve handled my fantasising.

Oh, to be fantasy prone. It is not something people of this personality type can “turn off” when they are working, walking, running, swinging on the swings, dancing, or even in a room full of people. It’s a part of who we are. Perhaps we can appear aloof or “out of it” to certain people, or even unintelligent to the uninformed observer.

The bottom line is, we are born with being fantasy prone in the same way that we are born as an introvert or extrovert, or as a boy or girl.

My therapist did not confirm that it is healthy or normal for me to be doing this, but she interestingly just nodded when I explained to her that it’s something that I do for inspiration, whether my current life situation is good or bad. She seemed sort of fascinated, actually.

I look at it as yet another tool used by the writer mind.

**Readers: Have you taken the fantasy prone personality test? What are your thoughts on this highly imaginative personality type? Did you always notice that there was something very different about the way that you saw the world, compared to less creative people?

Feeling Inspired During Unexpected Moments

Do you ever think it’s weird how the most unexpected things can inspire you to write? Like, the most amazing idea of a character can strike you when you’re washing the dishes. Or, this epic new storyline forms in your head when you’re listening to a song or watching a movie whose genre is unrelated to anything that you would want to write about. I love how the writer’s mind works, and how inspiration can strike sometimes when we’re not even looking for it. It’s especially welcome when one has gone through a long spell of writer’s block or hasn’t had the mental energy to write for a few weeks.

I myself felt a relapse of intense inspiration while listening to some sadcore songs by Lana Del Rey. I normally listen to her music to unwind or to combat stress/anxiety. Then, one day, I played a few of her songs while cleaning my room and the sun was shining through my window. (For those of you that don’t know me as well… it’s rain that normally feeds my writing energy, not sunshine. I’ve often said that I loath too many sunny days in a row). I don’t know how this moment gave me the motivation to think of new characters and further the plot of my novel – which is bleak and dark in most scenes, but it somehow did. I’m not sure what this says about my psyche right now, but whatever. I’ll embrace the artistic-driven euphoria while it lasts.I am about half-way through that outline I said I would work on a couple of weeks ago, but it’s progress! There’s just a lot of details to work out, so I am not going to rush it right now.

I guess I’m just always fascinated by the workings of a human’s mind, especially a creative writer’s mind. It can go from orderly to chaotic to melancholic to joyous all within the span of a couple of days. I guess it’s what needed to create spell-binding tales…

How about you? Have you ever felt strongly inspired to write during an unexpected or strange moment?

2014 Writing Projects

Hello writers and readers! Today I am going to talk about my writing projects and then share an excerpt from my most recent novel in progress.

The Novel

Well, I’m happy to say that my newest novel has reached the 46,000 word mark today. Part One flowed amazingly well, but things get quite complicated in Part Two after one country invades another and I want to introduce some more characters — The Kings and Queens, the anarchists working undercover, etc.

Considering that the story is inspired by my four grandparents, WWII, violence in the world today, and just my usually weird mind… I have a feeling that I am going to need to give in & start an outline for Part Two. Sometimes, I can get away with writing as I go, or at least I think I can. Maybe it’s all just a figment of my imagination that being a “pantster” works for me. Maybe the whole writing process would be much easier if I always just created an outline first.

I would realistically like to have the first draft complete by this summer. Let’s say by June. I’m just so excited about it because it will be the very first full length book that I have ever written! And I want it to be the best that it can be. If it takes five years to polish up, edit, re-edit, and re-write before publishing, then so be it! Also, I really need to think of a working title.

An excerpt from this story is at the end. Based on my Grandma Maylard’s character. Comments – whether they are criticisms or praises – are always welcome.

The Short Story

I completed a short story back in the spring that is very close to my heart. I thought it was in that “ready to go” stage, but my amazing beta reader showed me otherwise. Honestly, the most important people in your writing career are going to be your beta readers. He picked up that my supporting character seemed a little weak (A prop) and he also noticed a lot of plot holes in the story.

You see, with short stories you really can’t skimp on the complexity of the characters and all the details that make it worth being a short story. In my mind, all of the details are there, but sometimes I think I can be a little light with description and too heavy on the adverbs.

It’s funny how writing mistakes seem so blatant when someone else points them out, but before that you could have read over it another 25 times and you still wouldn’t see it. Alas, I am excited to get into the nitty gritty of that story in due time.

So, there will be a lot of editing and adding to it over the next few months as well. My goal is to have it polished, beta read, and edited by this summer. :)

The Autobiography

Yes, I’m actually going to write a story about… *Awkward moment alert*… me! Of course, I’m not going to make it blatant that this book is an actual autobiography. Me and the characters will have slightly distorted names and the setting is going to be quite whimsical and fantastical, but it will indeed be based on my life. Half of my living moments are spent in fantasy worlds anyway, so I thought it would be fitting to write the story of my life set in a different realm. People that know me will likely be able to piece certain things together and figure most of it out.

I’ll be working at it here and there, whenever the inspiration strikes.


Helena climbed onto the fence that lined the road to watch the marching soldiers. The time had come for them to leave the safety of their training camp and sail for Nesi. Many were not much older than she was, yet they were in such a hurry to fight as though death could never touch them. She knew all too well that no one was safe from mortality’s kiss of betrayal.
Remembering a document of her father’s that she had read over a year ago about the superior weaponry and fighting tactics used by the Nesins, she felt guilty for pitying herself earlier. If she were a boy, she might have become a soldier in a couple of years rather than continue to work as a miner. She shuddered at the idea of running through a volley of arrows or trying to escape from an enemy much bigger and more skilled than she. Perhaps the mines were not so terrible, after all.
The line of fighters came to an end. She watched as the last of them disappeared into the forest. Perhaps never to be seen in their own country again.