Too Much Ice Ruins the Scotch

At left, a lovely frozen river in a photo taken by Geo Swan and posted on the wikicommons. My river looks like this now, without the barges.

I find ice ruins scotch. When it is this cold, I don't want any. I do want nice hot tea. I'm making some now.

The stove is going. The foxhound is eating a chew. The cats are downstairs with their mother watching lies from politicians. I'm not biased. I despise all politicians as scum. Great characters for someone like me, though.

I'm working up a piece tonight like most nights. I am however only paying the lightest attention to the "mystery" because the story is about the two main characters, their interaction, needs, wants, and a resolution for both.

I think all my stories should follow this ideal better than they do.

I love plot. I do. It's great. But, I love books because of characters and not plot and my own stories are too heavy on plot focus and not heavy enough on the characters. I've been reluctant to put on paper the desperate, lonely, hesitant, and emotionally conflicted sorts of people we all know and love. Hell, some of us are these people.

I don't know why I have been reluctant to write these characters. That's wrong. I know I haven't wanted to write these characters because I am uncomfortable examining the thin veil of control over my own emotions. To put these human characters on the page is to expose their vulnerabilities which do come in some part from my own.

There it is.

I've reached the point where I don't care to mask emotional tumult and turmoil from the author in well-balanced content little characters going about their lives but for the conflict of the plot device which I've subtly dropped into their front yard, like a tugboat.

The conflict is in the character. I need to keep telling myself this fact.

"Siri? Where is the conflict?"

"It's in the character, of course."

Off to write. You should do so, too.