Today I created a new character in my head, admidst silence from my part and the chattering of classmates and friends (or mere acquaintances? I couldn't tell)
Her name is Anne Whitdale.
Okay, so I lied, I created her quite a few days ago, and she's been in my head ever since, mostly pacing in the confines of my mind and languishing in silence. So is cyborg 213, whose gentle whirrings and fake-breaths lull me to sleep.
Honestly, that is the main reason why writers (and artists) are isomniacs. Because to them, their characters are alive and speaking, they are alive and bonded to you because they area figment of your imagination, a childhood friend you've never had. But I dare not label myself a 'writer', for this is a title only to be bestowed upon others who recognise your talent or gift, no matter how minute.
My writing sucks. I know. I face it everyday, what with the unlimite purple prose that make me wince and pretentious speech. Because I am just fool's gold, I have no talent at all in the art of weaving words, and I ound like an andriod most of the time, and my characters are endlessly one-dimensional even though i have tried my best to flesh them out and show their emotions.
They are alive in me, but I just can't breathe their life on paper.
