I am writing characters, these days, who are…incredibly lonely…and possibly misled in their tactics to achieve their desires. They are lost in the world. One character has lost his mother and trying to find home and companionship. Another seeks friendship and questions her own ability to capture love. And yet another two characters make sacrifices to “right” what they deem their son’s erroneous decision. I know, I’m describing them (and their stories) in the blandest of terms for the sake of this post.
Each of the characters have so much potential, and yet for one reason or another, have only just begun discovering their true direction, and have a long way to go towards fulfilling it. They are, needless to say, all unhappy.
And I find that I, too, am empathizing and identifying with each of these characters until I am so lonely I could scream, so lost I can’t be found…and finding so much of myself unfulfilled.
I watched “Stranger Than Fiction” on the telly the other night, watched the writer character, Karen Eiffel, standing on the top of a building, imagining herself jumping off, until she was jumping off the building to her death, replicating a character’s potential actions. She didn’t jump, really, but she had jumped, in her mind, into a dark place that might as well have been death.
I wonder–if there is such a thing as “method writing,” ala “method acting.”
If so, then writing is a dangerous activity.