I am wandering in my novel; the right things are not being written. I’m not touching the core, and some even seems obvious artifice, at least to me. I like my characters, and I believe they are worthy of carrying a story, but I keep losing their true personalities in my expectations of who they should be.
Expectation: as damaging in the world of the novel as it is in real life.
From the Tao te Ching:
“The Master’s power is like this. He lets all things come and go effortlessly, without desire. He never expects results; thus he is never disappointed. He is never disappointed; thus his spirit never grows old.”
I am disappointed tonight, for not only am I not writing the right things, but I have expectations of myself in writing their story. My main expectation as creator: to get the story at least close to right. And I’m not, because I am not allowing the story to naturally unfold from who my characters are.
Time to get real. No more shoulds. No more expectations. No more fear that I’m going to write the wrong thing, because that fear itself will cause the wrong thing to be written.