I hear voices in my head. They talk to each other. I live a lot of my life in other worlds, worlds other people can’t see, or hear, or touch. I forget about the real world sometimes; so much so I, at times, forget the names of my closest friends. Some might call this schizophrenia, or some other sort of crazy. I call it fiction writing.
A couple of my favorite characters are about to die in the novel I’m crafting. Their deaths are ordained. I can do nothing to stop death from swooping down upon my page and casting his scythe into the pool of my imagination. I will shortly mourn through the eyes of my main character. I will then feel his anger, his sorrow, and know the decisions he will make before he even completes them. I will see him to the end, and then he will be on his own. His world will cease to be my world. I will move on to another, create a new character, and take him under my wing for a time. God willing, I will continue this trend for a very long time.