they're back. the casts of characters, i mean, who otherwise wander in the wasteland of my imagination, roaming like packs of hungry zombies until some attention, some spark springs them into Being.
they've gotten stronger, too... as if their time spent roaming in the Wilderness hones them, refines and shapes and molds them without my looking.
and there's a lot of them, shuffling skeletal forms that rush at me with outstretched arms any time my thoughts turn in their direction.
pick me, pick me, pick me, they scream. i feel the weight of their stories swelling, tugging as the need of a nursing infant.
it's a compulsion, a neurotic compulsion, a workshop leader once assured me. if you weren't addicted to writing, it'd be something maybe less healthy. like cocaine.
the angel book doesn't satisfy in quite the same way,... even blogging isn't the same. i spoke to my agent the other day. and even though i didn't speak directly of any fiction other than the project on submission (i believe i believe i believe), i could feel every last character in my head listening.
so this morning, as a reward for going to the dentist, after i finish this, im going to go read some of my unfinished projects, sit with each neglected group, and see what comes.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.