Fiction by L.L. Muir
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Disturbing...

3/1/2015

5 Comments

 
I can usually be found sitting at my uber cool desk at the head of the spacious waiting room. The dark pink, floral rugs keep footsteps to a minimum. Many characters get up and move around but try not to disturb me when they do it--the faster I work, the sooner their turn will come, you see.

But when one of the doors opens, either at the far left corner or the door in the wall directly to my right, I usually know it. When characters appear for the first time, it is usually "on set," but when they come into the room to wait for their own story, they come through the door on the left. When they leave to play out their own stories, they leave through the one on the right. 

Of course, some characters come back through the right side door when they want a revision, when they want to stick their noses in other people's stories, or when their story gets interrupted by a book that is deemed more timely. If they are called back inside because they've been bumped, their noses are usually out of joint--all but the well-mannered Stanley. 

But yesterday, I suddenly became aware that someone new was in the room. I hadn't noticed a door opening, or I'd been too deeply immersed in the final pages of Kilt Trip to hear anything at all. But the fact remains, we have a new character. 

A woman, I think. She's small, wears a dark cloak with the hood pulled far forward. She stands along the left wall, but her attention isn't on me. Apparently she's in no hurry to have her story told. But I can't help worrying that one of my other characters might be in danger. After all, Mrs. Wiggs was able to remove a character from the room. So it stands to reason someone else would be able to do the same.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see...

5 Comments

    About the room...

    There are a number of rooms in my head. Behind one, there is a gnarly table covered with thick open books. If I close those and tuck them away on the shelves, my thoughts become less cluttered. I can focus on whatever is left on the table.

    The floor of another room has so many tasseled pillows you can never reach the surface beneath. Tapestries cover the stone walls. (This is from my childhood memory of a movie about Katherine the Great. I think Peter O'Toole was tickled there without mercy.) I loved her room so much, I created one of my own.

    The most trafficked place in my head, though, is The Waiting Room. Characters arrive of their own free will. Few are ever asked to leave--even the villains have to be allowed from time to time, though I try to finish their stories and hustle them out the door as quickly as I can.

    The room itself is square. No alcoves for characters to hide from me or initiate romances with characters from other books. For example, the main character from a Regency romance started flirting with Isobelle from 1496! I had to get to her story quickly before the relationship could threaten both their happily ever afters.

    I have an obsession with white-leather wing-backed chairs, so the waiting room is full of them. Let's face it, there's an actual duke in there and I can't just give him a folding chair from Sam's Club, can I? His given name is Stanley, and like Stanley, many of these characters have been waiting years for their turn. And though they need no food and water, no change of costume or trip to the loo, I like to think I've made them comfortable.

    I mentioned that few have been asked to leave. One of those was Mrs. Wiggs, a female gunfighter and a lovely woman for the most part. But she doesn't suffer fools or poor piano playing, so when she shot another character for a weak attempt to entertain the rest, I had to send her and her guns packin'. *snort* Get it? Packin'? 

    In any case, Mrs. Wiggs will have to bide her time in the waiting room of Bella Bowen until her trilogy is finished. (Bella Bowen is the pen name under which I publish Western romances.) She's better off there. Or at least, the other gun-toting characters will be able to defend themselves... As for the poor piano player, I don't think she's going to make it.

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