A Life Sentence
Words and ideas and characters are flowing - not flowing, but racing - through my head and I can't stop them. I don't want to. I want to be sad for all the ideas that I'll forget by tomorrow but I don't have time - I just have to get them down, don't stop, don't breathe, they'll be gone if you even blink.
Tracy, the girl who packed her bags and left Louisiana to live in Spain, never mind that she didn't speak a word of Spanish and barely had money to buy the plane ticket.
Carlyle, the kid in the thick glasses who loved math and rode a motorcycle, who got drafted into the military for World War III.
Jane, an aged Canadian sweetheart who writes her memoirs to her daughter in New York.
There they are. They look better in writing than in my head. More real, more solid. Those people are mine, I sculpted them. I will write out their personalities, I will give them their gifts of beauty or brains or adventure, and I will take away their loved ones and their stability. I will design their lives; I will send tragedies and moments of brilliant exuberance. They will live, that I can promise. They may not all live long, but they will live wonderfully and crazily and they will make a mess.
After all, they are me.