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“Again, this is not new information.”
“So…how can they be telling you what to do?”
“Because they have a mind of their own.”
He nodded slowly. “And their mind is your mind…because they’re in your head.”
“What’s your point?”
“Apparently, I don’t have one.”
“You don’t get it,” I sighed. “Yes, I make them up and rule them, but they have feelings and thoughts. It’s not all what I decide to do or say. In a way, it’s like they’re alive in my head and forcing me to type.” And then a thought occurred to me. “It’s like they’re taking over my body!”
My head whipped around to stare at his frightened face. “So, you’re telling me when I’m sleeping with you, I’m really sleeping with every single character you’ve ever written?”
“No. Not entirely,” I winced. “Only the current characters. The rest are locked away in the closet.”
“I’m guessing the closet is in your head.”
“That would be correct.”
“And you keep them in a closet because…”
“Because otherwise, they would come out to play,” I said, finding that question stupid.
“I’m done with this conversation.” He turned and walked away, which was pretty typical when I tried to explain anything that went on in my brain when it came to writing. Sure, he found my stories funny and got excited along with me, but the process was more than he could take sometimes.
For poops and giggles, I pulled up Google and typed in How to control the characters in your head. I rolled my eyes, something I did all the time, and hit return. The first thing I brought up was:
I make up fictional characters in my head and pretend they’re people I’m talking to. Is this normal? I realize they are real and I can make them go away, but I still want to know.
I nodded as I read along, then promptly closed the window. I was insane, and if I went looking for a way to solve my problem, I was positive the FBI would hunt me down and combine all my searches including how to hide a body without leaving a trace, the best fertilizer to use when blowing up a building, how to kill a spouse and get away with it, and my favorite…torture throughout the ages. All of those searches combined with one about hearing voices in my head was sure to be a red flag.
I always thought better with wine. It was seriously wrong to try and solve any problem without a good glass of red. Besides, it was already…
I spun to look at the clock, wincing when I saw it was only two in the afternoon. That was close enough to wine time. I quickly grabbed a glass and a bottle of red, ignoring my husband’s odd look, then took a long swig and got back to work.
Cracking my knuckles, I reread what I’d already written, but…
“Wait,” Kate said, placing her hand on Hunter’s. “Give me a few minutes with him.”
Frowning, I continued reading. This wasn’t what I wrote. In my scene, Hunter injected Rob with a drug to knock him out. Then the psychiatrist was going to enter.
“I met with Giulia. She’s trying to kill off my girlfriend in this book, but I can’t let her. I’ll never get a happily ever after if she succeeds.”
“He did what?” I shouted. “That bastard sold me out!”
“What? What happened?” my husband shouted, running into the room.
“That bastard sold me out!”
“I heard that part. What are you talking about?”
“Rob! He told a character that I was killing off his girlfriend!”
Oci cocked his head at me, then eyed the glass of wine. “How much have you had?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Only the one glass.”
