I’m going along, revising my book, my latest little book, by changing all the “stopped” and “plodded” to “stops”and “plods” and I hear these words, all these things my characters are saying to each other, the words that fly between them that I think I really only have some marginal responsibility for and mostly just kind of exist on their own, and I think:
Yes, I am glad you two exist.
(And I am glad I will spend years with you, writing the rest of your story.)
And I don’t really feel they are my creations anymore at all. They simply are. And now I will follow them, write down what they do.
It’s a bit like those other people, the ones who live in my house and kind of look like me.
It’s strange to look at them and just marvel:
You are people, all in your own right and such.
Yes, I just marvel at it all.