The more I write, the more it feels like voodoo. I just hit a writing anniversary. I have been writing every week on Merriton for a year. I’m feeling pretty stoked about it, but at the same time, I don’t really feel responsible for it. The more I work on it, the more it feels like it isn’t me that’s writing it. Sure, there are little stories that I want to tell, but mostly they come out of my fingers in a rush of clicking and I don’t feel connected with the writing process. I almost feel like a conduit.
I spend a lot of time thinking about all the people in Merriton. Sometimes I want to torture them. Sometimes I want to make them happy. Sometimes I want to put them in situations just to see how they will get out of them. Most of the time, they are just talking in my mind and make it hard for me to live in the real world.
I’m happy with the story and I only have a year left to tie up all the stories I wanted to tell about these people. Will Randy and Sierra break the curse of the Bowen house and stay in Merriton longer than two years? I don’t know. Is that wrong?