My own photos of the region are long gone. St. Pierre and La Thuile hold special for me. I broke my soul there, once.
What is it to know for the first time that what actions you are going to take are going to ruin your closest sense of happiness? What is it to know that you are discarding that thing you thought you wanted most?
The tumult is that into which we desire to send our characters on our pages.
We like the image of transformation and revelation in our literature though it doesn't have to have the Disney ending. In real life, we make choices that take the smile from our soul when we have to. Our characters should do the same.
What is it for our detective to know the endgame, drive ahead, and know that the consequences will forever change things in their own little world?
I'm working the rural noir and of course the challenge here is that my protagonist has to live in this little community. Things the protagonist does or does not do alters the balance of happiness in the place where he sleeps. How much of that change can you impart on a place and still consider it your home?
How much change before you have to leave?
If nothing changes, we have no story. If things change, one of our stories revolves around the effects of those changes on the resolve of our protagonist.
How much change can you stand? How much until you break your soul, your love for something, someone?
I left parts scattered on the hillside here. I tried eating the souls of others for a while to make up the difference. Never worked.
You move on.
Does your character move on or do they live amoungst the shards of broken dreams they keep in their pocket?
The discipline of the ink demands we know these answers. Maybe it is why we still write.
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