Sometimes I feel like my own characters, who will be walking through life when all of a sudden I drop them into a situation and dump everything on them all at once. Most of the time I have no pity for them, and actually find a twisted sort of pleasure in watching them tread water to keep their heads above the surface of all the chaos. I add pressure on my poor Rollie to solve the case. I know he’s the type of character who struggles with the insecurities of letting his loved ones down, of not being good enough, of failing. So what do I do? I up the stakes and add the pressure of his insecurities.
Sometimes I can relate to my characters. There are days when I struggle with my own insecurities of being a mom and wife and friend. I feel like someone ups the stakes. While I know the ending of Rollie’s story—I know he’ll make it through his insecurities and solve the case, for the most part—I don’t know the ending to my story. I don’t know if Westly will learn to be verbal on time. I don’t know if I’ll triumph over my temper. But then not knowing makes the story more suspenseful and interesting, I suppose.
I can count on one thing though: the Author of my story is really, really, really good at what He does.