My chihuahua, Tobin, who is in charge of everything–it’s true; just ask him–had to go visit the vet yesterday.  In his desire to be the biggest, baddest dog in the house, he likes rough-housing with the Great Dane-Boxer mix, Sisko.  His latest foray into the ring ended with  either a bruised or strained muscle.  Instantly my rambunctious bundle of barking energy became a shaking ball of pain.  I know what you’re thinking–chihuahuas all shake.  Not Tobin.  That’s why when he woke me up at four o’clock in the morning whimpering, growling, and shaking badly enough that my pillow felt like it was alive, I knew there was something terribly wrong with my baby.

For anyone who doesn’t have pets, who doesn’t love an animal as if it was a baby, you might not understand.  But imagine how you feel when your child stands beside your bed in the middle of the night, crying, because (s)he’s sick, hurting, or scared.  You’re instantly wide awake, trying to figure out what’s wrong, and doing everything in your power to make it right.  Well, as you might guess, Tobin couldn’t tell me what was wrong.  Sadly, even though he understands absolutely every syllable that comes out of my mouth when I have lengthy conversations with him, I can’t understand him.

Tobin’s situation got me to thinking about the characters I write.  If you’re not aware of this, an author’s characters become real to him.  They become like his children, and he wants to do everything he can to take care of them and give them the best life they can possibly have.  If you’ve read my novel, Ride the Train, you know what happens at the end of section one.  That was a terrible thing to write, even though I knew what the ultimate outcome would be.  (If you’re wondering what I’m talking about, you’ll just have to read it.  No spoilers!)

Part of taking care of characters is letting them grow and do their own thing, even if you don’t want them to do it.  Like any good parent, you have no choice, though.  The best characters have their own lives, their own voices.  They choose their actions and words, and the author must step back and let them be.  Don’t get me wrong, the author could force the character to do anything, but then the story suffers.  The reader can tell when characters are not authentic, when they’re not doing what they want to do.  The overall quality of the work suffers because of it.

As helpless as I felt with Tobin and not knowing exactly what was wrong with him, I have characters that are trying to tell me what they want.  Sure, they’ve been silent for the better part of a year.  But I’ve been waiting, thinking about them, biding my time until they decided to speak to me.  Now, they’ve started telling me what they want, and I can hear them, loud and clear.  Their story will be told–the way they want it to be.

And just so I don’t leave you wondering, Tobin is doing much better.  The vet gave him some pain pills to help get him through the worst so he can heal.  Overnight my shaking bundle of non-verbal pain returned to my boisterous, playful monster who rules over all with an iron fist.  And I’m so happy he has.