That's the point when I have to ask myself: who is writing this book, me or this character I thought was mine?
Certainly, I am in control of plenty when it comes to writing. When I write. Whether I write. What and who and where I choose to write about. But there is this wonderful rush of story that takes over when the timing is just right, and I get swept up in this new adventure that doesn't feel like it's of my own choosing.
I do have a choice: do I stick to my notes, my plans, all the things I thought this book was leading up to?
Or do I write just a little way down the new path? Just to see what's around the next bend? After all, if I don't like it, I can always turn around, retrace my steps back to the path I've marked, continue on my original course.
The paths spill ahead through the pages, taking me past landmarks that start to seem familiar. A touch of character development that wormed its way into Chapter Three suddenly makes sense in Chapter Seventeen. A setting I spent too many paragraphs on, just for the sheer joy of walking around in it, suddenly comes back into play, already designed and waiting for this scene I didn't know was coming.
Who is writing this book? Is it me? Or is it the writer I can be, the one who sneaks out when I turn off my worries and let the writing take over?
It's a question I love getting to ask again and again.