~ There'll be Chocolate, if God wills it. ~
When I am writing I often find myself being led along. Sometimes characters and the story go into places that are somewhat unknown, and sometimes things that you as the writer want to put down on "paper" are not what the story wants. I recently had a scene that I was writing and I knew what was going to happen, but then, it didn't. The story will tell itself, and as strange as that sounds, its true...you'll know it when it happens and it is quite awesome.
I am asking myself the question of what is required to live up to the challenge which is given to every person who would try to be an honest artist. One of the first things is realising that one possibility is that I am a phoney. It is a possibility that has to be seriously reflected upon. The other thing to realise is that the price that is expected when attempting to dive for pearls is that to dive that deep is to drown, and that it must be accepted that I will drown, and that it is the right action. (Easy to say, tough to do.) But, since in the end, we face our own extinction, oblivion; then is it not the most appropriate, the most vital of actions? It really is not so much a choice as a necessity. Each is called to be a hero in his or her own narrative, to experience the unmasked and naked reflection of an expression that finds root in a common place. Words yield to silence, and silence sits on the event horizon. We always stand at the edge of the abyss--we just do not see it most of the time. There are, however, moments of great clarity, (or so they seem), when brave futility in action is the most noble of things a person can commit to doing. I think that is what is required to be a true artist--faithful to the calling. I know this all sounds terribly melodramatic, but when you look deeply, really, really deeply; I don't think that any other realisation is sound. Death makes what seems futile, noble. Each of us has the privilege of a brief span of time, and to fully appreciate the value of it, the thing that is required is voluntary relinquishment of my attachment. If a mariner of olde fails to push back the boundaries, to go into those places on the ancient maps, that say, "Beyond here there be dragons"; has he lived his life, or merely been a slave, sitting within a prison in which he is prison, prisoner and guard?
If you want to live a bounded finite life, that is easy, and not terribly fulfilling, and it does not stop the end which is death. What choice am I then left with?
Stephen King grapples with this very effectively in “The Stand”. Am I willing to do likewise? (I must go on a quest to I know not where, in search of I know not what.)
Often I might have an image of the character, but if they want to do something different that's OK too.^^