I use to make fun of my husband and his OCD ways, making snide comments like 'there's madication for people like you' ... I've since quit. I dream about my characters; complete scenes, dialogues and histories flash across my mind if a certain song sparks an image. I'm obssessed with trivial details that in reality, matter only to me. Who cares what happened 300 years before the start of the story? Who cares how, exactly, the characters became who they are? Who cares what the fashion was in New York circa 1775?
A person you meet is not the same person from 5 hours ago, 10 days ago and lets face it, 500 years sgould take a toll. A person is a collage of all their experiences; every person they ever met, every movie they saw, every song they listened to, sang with ,cried over or danced. A person is the cullmanation of triumphs over adversities ( even if the adversity was figuring out that the diaper tabs have to be on the bottom).
So as I'm writing the third novel to the House of DeDe series, I want to know more about their pasts. Imagine if you lived hundreds of years? How many memories would you like to erase? How many moments in time would you care to redo? How many times would you like to say ... I'm sorry.
And if you could, would you?
I squandered a great deal of my life doing odd jobs , having fun , reading and writing. I wouldn't change a moment because even though some of the memories aren't nice or pretty, they've made me the person I am today.
It's how I feel about the characters. No one's perfect, everyone has secrets they'll take to the grave . And everyone will deny this basic fact. But I want to know my characters secrets. I need to know what makes them tick to the bitter end.
Enough musings. I really must concentrate and finish the damn book.