Writing on a Rainy Sunday

This morning I laze on my sofa listening to the rain that prevents me from checking another outdoor chore off my list.  Our cats, Zorro and Elvis, who usually crowd my feet or pin my legs with their furry selves, are elsewhere in the house.  Carol is in her office, either answering emails or playing FreeCell.  I have some work I could attend to in the large back garage which is in desperate need of cleaning and organizing.  I'll attack that this afternoon, but right now when the ancient clock across the room has not yet announced eight, I will write.

I am working on two separate stories.  Neither has revealed its ending yet but both are moving along.  I think the easier one will find completion in the next week, the harder one maybe never.  That one scares me because the character that has grown and developed in it, and whom I have grown to like, may turn out to be a serial killer.  I don't want him to.  Those of you who write fiction will probably understand.  When a character is born, he or she is maleable but soon grows in ways that the writer, to be true to the developing story, must honor.

My writing is so strongly character based that the storyline I intend is often rejected in its development and turned in a direction more attuned to the person who has grown from my tappings on the keyboard.  If the tale takes a direction I cannot tolerate, my only recourse is to abandon it, for the driving character would not accept a course alteration more to my liking.

About my possible serial killer - I'm not rejecting the storyline, yet, but I must steel myself to write it and to be true to the tale, in spite of being repulsed by the idea.  If I am willing to put repulsion aside I will be able to continue.  But maybe my character is of a different darkness he has not yet revealed to me, so I will not have to worry.  The only way to find out is to take him and his story further along its path and see.

Wish me luck.