Sometimes a scene writes itself. The characters start talking and I just record what they say and do. I know it’s just my subconscious speaking, but I also know the scene I wrote last week is a direct reflection of kids I knew and conversations I overheard when I was a volunteer at the Night Ministry’s Open Door shelter in Chicago.

Hopefully they come across as real to you, too. Click on the quote below to read the whole scene and then let me know if you could see these minor characters as clearly I could while writing about them.

“What’s your name?” The girl asked when Lily sat. “I’m Sugar and this here little ragamuffin—” She teased the little boy at her side by tickling his ribs until he pushed her away, giggling. “This is Ty-baby. My little Tyrone. It’s his birthday tomorrow. He be two years old soon, won’t you Ty Ty? Huh?”

Maybe only writers will truly understand this, but I desperately wish someone would invent a method of recording thoughts and dream.

I suppose most dreams would probably seem nonsensical if made into a viewable movie, but I have had some really cool dreams that, while unbelievable, I’ve wished I could hold on to or revisit.

Then today, while swimming, scenes from Cry Baby Cry started flipping through my head almost immediately while doing laps. Not only did I have a break through on a chapter I’ve been struggling with for weeks, but kept  another pivotal scene, several minor character sketches, a Facebook post, and a blog entry blossomed into being during the forty minutes I swam back and forth.

I kept repeating them in my mind over and over, fearful I’d completely forget them by the time I finished, dried off, dressed, and drove back home to my computer. I think I have captured most of them. There’s this blog post, for one thing, and I finished my chapter and started the next one. Click the quote below to read an excerpt of my brain flood and let me know if it was worth rememebring.

It wasn’t a romantic embrace, although she’d imagined that happening quite a few times in the darkness of her lonely room at night. It was an “I’ve got you” hug, a “don’t worry about a thing” that was comforting and warm and believable. She never wanted him to let go.