Yes, you read that right. Fight, rights, in your face. Now I’m sure you’re wondering what the heck I’m talking about.
When I sit down and begin a new story, I generally have two things: one, a rough, and I do mean rough, idea of what the characters will do and two, a mental picture of what the hero will look like.
It is. I never know what my heroine will look like until she tells me. Hero? I tend to have an idea and then he shouts when a gent looking like him shows up on the tv or online.
But this post is about fighting for rights.
Now, when I sit down to write a story, as I said, I have the generalities figured out. That doesn’t mean things won’t change. Trust me, they change.
I had this one story more or less outlined. Yeah, I knew exactly what was going to happen, when the naughty parts would be, and how the end would work out.
Right up until the point where the hero leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “Hon, that’s great. The job is perfect and you have my visage down pat, but we need to talk about the race.”
I frowned. “Race?”
“Yup. You ain’t gonna believe this, but I’m nocturnal.”
Scratched my head. “Nocturnal? I suppose you’re gonna tell me you’re a vampire, too?”
“I would but you guessed it. I’ve tried to tell you three or four times now, but you wouldn’t listen. I figured digging my chin into your shoulder ‘til you had to pay attention would work.”
Well....crud. So much for planning. Ok. Back to the drawing board—sort of. All the sunsets and dazzling sunshine scenes were effectively out. I had to change my thinking from they made love that NIGHT to they made love all DAY. Oh the insanity of it all!
(Well, not really, but I have a flair for the dramatic.)
You’d think I would’ve been irritated, having to do so much rewriting. Not really. I took it as his version of a challenge. Up to that point, things went entirely too easily. I really didn’t have the emotional attachment to the story. When he stood up, shouted, and dug his dog-goned pointed chin into my shoulder, then I looked at it from the perspective that this guy CAN’T see the sunshine, can’t run in a summer rainstorm, or most things that we do during the day.
So I took the bull by the horns and worked my buns off. The story turned out pretty darned hot and is one of my favorites—all because he fought for his right to be who he was and not who I made him out to be.
Moral to my story?
When the characters fight to be heard, don’t argue, just go with it. You’ll be glad you did.