I belong to a writer's group. We are a state-wide organization, with local chapters. I have to go there tonight. Not that I don't want to go, I do. I just hardly have anything new (or good) to read.
I'm poking around in the ashes of a short story I wrote a couple of years ago. It just hasn't caught fire yet. It's one of those weird writer things that makes non-writer types in my life think that I have some sort of mental problem. (Well, other than my obvious neurotic tics that we all have whether you admit it or not.)
See, the main character, she's in high school and she told me a while back that she is pregnant and that is going to screw up a whole bunch of things. Pretty much everything.
Now, her older brother, who is supposed to be the wiser, more mature, level headed of the two, he just up and got extremely pissed off in a scene that has nothing to do with nothing. I mean, he was sitting in Moe's, eating nachos with tomatillo sauce and suddenly wanted to bash someone's head in with his text book.
And he don't even know his little sissy is knocked up.
For Pete's sake.
People don't understand, we writers aren't always in complete control of these people we create. But that's where the rush lies.
Or maybe I really am just crazy.