Running a Mental Commune Where Nobody Pays Rent

Being an author is a bit like running a mental commune where nobody pays rent. Most people probably think writing books is about sitting calmly at a keyboard, drinking coffee, and waiting for inspiration. I don't drink coffee anymore, but otherwise that description bears little resemblance to reality.

When you write books over many years, something strange happens. The characters move in. Not literally — that would get cramped — but they take up space in your head. On a perfectly ordinary day, I can be standing in the grocery store, wondering whether to buy avocados or ice cream, while part of my brain is busy figuring out how genetically engineered girls are supposed to save the world, why a dragon is acting suspicious, and what Captain Ego is going to complain about in the next chapter. It's rarely quiet in there. Some people have one inner voice. I have an entire board meeting.

Sometimes the solution to a plot problem turns up while I'm brushing my teeth. Other times it arrives in the middle of the night, just as I'm about to fall asleep. My brain seems to think 3:17 a.m. is a perfectly excellent time to discuss character development. And it's most frustrating when I sit down to write, and then end up writing something completely different. Entirely different things just come tumbling down into my head.

It's not only the characters who have moved in, either. I have a parrot who sits on my shoulder when I write. She's attended more spiritual courses than many of the people I know, and she keeps a close eye on everything I do. I'm still not sure whether she's my pet or my editor. Sometimes she looks at me with an expression that says:

— You're really going to let that character do that?

And honestly, she often has a point.

The strange thing is that, eventually, the characters start living their own lives. They do things you hadn't planned. They refuse to follow the script. They make decisions that surprise you. As an author, you pretend you're in control. In reality, you're just trying to keep order in a mental commune made up of heroes, villains, parrots, dragons, intelligence agents, spiritual guides, and an ego with its own radio station. None of them pays rent. None of them cleans the bathroom. And they all expect attention at the same time.

Still, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Because somewhere between the chaos, the laughter, and the strange conversations going on inside my head, it turns into stories. And stories have a strange ability to find their way to exactly the people who need them.

Even if they sometimes begin with a parrot on the shoulder and a board meeting in the head.