I know a man who writes wonderfully warm stories about characters and places and events that are based on some small memory that has itched in his mind for a long time.
Some of us just start typing.
In the past couple of years, and in particular, the past couple of weeks, reality has offered so many stories, so many characters and character changes, so many dramatic moments of conflict, intrigue, love, hate, secrets, greed, and some damn near criminal actions. All within my own little piece of space.
Odd though; I just can’t write any stories about it. Even twisting things around, even just drawing on the actions or switching characters. I’m sure as it all sinks into the pool of experience it will emerge somewhere in story, but I don’t know that I’ll even be aware of the metamorphosis. Characters reincarnate in strange new environments to jostle with a new set of problems, a different scenario.
Will they behave as expected?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Almost never.