Every morning or afternoon or evening, I do a session of prompt-based free writing. And often in those, people emerge, people I’ve never met, like fragments of a strange dream.
I save up all these doodles, and once in a while, I glance through them. I meet new people each time people I’d forgotten about. This is who I found today, tucked in a file from way back in 2009:
For the longest time I wanted to hide. I wanted to stay surrounded by dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, empty beer cans and pizza cartons. My household, despite seventeen years of marriage, began to resemble a pad, a bachelor pad for a gang of rough types. I locked my huge mahogany door, unplugged my television, disconnected my telephone, my internet, switched off the cell phone and talked to nobody. I sent away the maid when she came knocking. I sat and shivered under a threadbare blanket on the living room sofa, and munched on Oreos.
I looked at myself naked in the mirror, my shriveled forty nine year old body with the breasts of a teenager, glossy and round, with nipples like drooping cactus flowers. Maybe this is why I suffered. For taking too much care of a few things, and of others, not enough.
I don’t know who she is, her name, where she lives, and out of the blue, today I want to find out.
Do you have days like this as a writer, when you meet a person from your imagination, long forgotten in a folder? As a reader do you ever wonder where the characters you read about come from?