On Wounded Characters

And a little empathy

I’m writing this with one arm in a splint and typing with one finger. I ventured out in the mud yesterday embodied with guilt because I thought I was the one who let my grandson’s cat out of the house…the cat who doesn’t return. I waded my way up the hill searching for the rascal only to slide back down, slip and fall, catching myself with my hand. Much too much weight and pressure to keep from breaking something. Alas, it was my radius bone and my wrist that crushed into each other.

My first words, “oh!”

My second thoughts besides having to pay the price for losing the cat…”I really need to treat the characters in my books better.”

Flashes of those poor souls I let suffer in the wilderness with stab wounds, arrow holes, broken bones and black eyes were coming to get me. As I swing my hoody over my shoulder that nurses a sling, I hear Ian, Erika, Baron, Maurice, Grai and all the wounded supporting characters in my books limping around their respective campfires under the stars chanting “why me?”

Good question.

Because it makes your stories more exciting?

Seriously?

I’ll have to think on that one with the next Ibuprofen I swallow.

Have a very happy Easter and don’t go tromping in the mud with clogs on!

By the way…the cat came back!

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