Wandering. That's what I've been doing this week and last. I've also been avoiding. Avoiding writing about the grandmother in my book. I didn't know much about her, so I stayed away. Usually when I don't know something, I write through it, and then finally I figure it out. But I didn't do that this time. I continually detoured because I really had no idea what she was all about. I had also tried quite a few qualities on her, like new hats, and nothing fit.
Then finally I jumped in and got nowhere. But instead of swimming to the nearest shore for safety, I stayed there, floating around in the current trying to figure out who this character was.
It didn't work. At. All.
But because I had been trying, had been writing through it, my subconscious began stewing over it even when I wasn't. And that's what's magical.
Because, finally, at around 2 AM on Thursday, I knew.
This is truly one reason to write. That wonderful, incredible feeling when the character starts to talk and it's almost impossible to capture her conversation, so quickly and forcefully she speaks.