Here's An Apple, Sweet Adam
by Cindy Jean Wilson
It all started one rainy Monday afternoon when my chores were finished; a story began swirling in my head. The characters were fictional but soon developed unique personalities with an assortment of physiques, demeanors, and voices all their own. I couldn't get them to stop sharing their opinions as they settled into my home--eager for me to feed them something nutritious and give them a place to sleep.
When I woke and went down for coffee in the morning, they were still there. Each had personal preferences and some were more cooperative than others. That’s why guests usually return to their own homes. I waited patiently, giving them countless incentives to leave and became enthusiastic about wonderful opportunities on the Today Show, until frustration finally set in. I’m an extrovert and like people but hospitality works best when we’re fresh.
That’s when I picked up a journal and exposed intricate details about my characters I couldn’t speak out loud. For some reason, this encouraged them and they felt validated. We chatted about superficial things all morning and then moved on to issues that were more complex in the afternoon. Before long, I called them by their proper names and knew details about their lives I never really wanted to know. It became a fascinating game.
In their defense, my hubby determined the story should be told and challenged me to write a tale of idealists who possess everything necessary to succeed in life, except for the only thing that really matters. That was the beginning.
This passionate story became emblazoned on my brain and hardly a day passed without thinking about how to adequately convey the characters' thoughts and actions. The plot grew to include subplots and as interesting details spilled over into new scenes, I knew the time had come.
Painting a novel with words became more fun than capturing a mesmerizing landscape with oil paints. My fingers danced on the computer keys trying to keep up with what would unfold next. Emotions built, dialog became heated, as interactions heightened--at times leading to sensory overload. My brain could hardly wait to turn the page. Where was this conversation headed? What would happen as the crisis loomed out of control? Was anyone capable of providing the critical help needed?
As days ran into nights, the story escalated and stopping to sleep sometimes seemed foolish. Rays of morning sunrise usually caught me off guard. Coffee usually helped. On a few occasions, I needed to pull the drapes closed and climb into bed for a delightful nap.
And then it happened. The last page appeared and my fingers hurriedly typed, "The end." Was it really? It seemed like some kind of joke. My body quivered with relief but a new storyline began creeping into my brain. "Goodness sakes, not a sequel?" I said to myself.
"It needs to be told," my hubby said at dinner.
When I woke and went down for coffee in the morning, they were still there. Each had personal preferences and some were more cooperative than others. That’s why guests usually return to their own homes. I waited patiently, giving them countless incentives to leave and became enthusiastic about wonderful opportunities on the Today Show, until frustration finally set in. I’m an extrovert and like people but hospitality works best when we’re fresh.
That’s when I picked up a journal and exposed intricate details about my characters I couldn’t speak out loud. For some reason, this encouraged them and they felt validated. We chatted about superficial things all morning and then moved on to issues that were more complex in the afternoon. Before long, I called them by their proper names and knew details about their lives I never really wanted to know. It became a fascinating game.
In their defense, my hubby determined the story should be told and challenged me to write a tale of idealists who possess everything necessary to succeed in life, except for the only thing that really matters. That was the beginning.
This passionate story became emblazoned on my brain and hardly a day passed without thinking about how to adequately convey the characters' thoughts and actions. The plot grew to include subplots and as interesting details spilled over into new scenes, I knew the time had come.
Painting a novel with words became more fun than capturing a mesmerizing landscape with oil paints. My fingers danced on the computer keys trying to keep up with what would unfold next. Emotions built, dialog became heated, as interactions heightened--at times leading to sensory overload. My brain could hardly wait to turn the page. Where was this conversation headed? What would happen as the crisis loomed out of control? Was anyone capable of providing the critical help needed?
As days ran into nights, the story escalated and stopping to sleep sometimes seemed foolish. Rays of morning sunrise usually caught me off guard. Coffee usually helped. On a few occasions, I needed to pull the drapes closed and climb into bed for a delightful nap.
And then it happened. The last page appeared and my fingers hurriedly typed, "The end." Was it really? It seemed like some kind of joke. My body quivered with relief but a new storyline began creeping into my brain. "Goodness sakes, not a sequel?" I said to myself.
"It needs to be told," my hubby said at dinner.
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