My creative independence slaves me:

Greetings, world! This post revolves around the July topic of Absolute Write’s Watercooler blog chain: Independence and Slavery. Firstly, the participants of this chain are mentioned:

Drum roll, please:

Participants and posts:

orion_mk3 – (link to this month’s post)
knotanes – (link to this month’s post)
meowzbark – (link to this month’s post)
Ralph Pines – (link to this month’s post)
randi.lee – (link to this month’s post)
writingismypassion – (link to this month’s post)
pyrosama – (link to this month’s post)
bmadsen – (link to this month’s post)
dclary – (link to this month’s post)
Poppy – (link to this month’s post)
areteus – (link to this month’s post)
Sweetwheat – (link to this month’s post)
ThorHuman – (link to this month’s post)
Tex_Maam – (link to this month’s post)
MelodySRV – (link to this month’s post)

My creative independence slaves me:

It was a Saturday afternoon, the wind had suddenly chilled to the point of discomfort and the clouds had flooded the skies. The sun was only visible as insistent rays piercing through the thick gray tumults. Evergrey echoed in my headphones. And my manuscript was right in front of me, challenging me to change it.

This was the seventh—or eighth, not really sure—revision and still I couldn’t seem to break from the original idea, even though I didn’t like it. And worst of all, it really caught my eye to see that, though I could come up with anything I wanted regarding the characters of this novel, I couldn’t break free from the original idea.

As I analyzed every line of my manuscript I realized that it was that very same initial creativity that held me back. I created characters, gave them lives, names, problems and fears, they spoke back to me, asking for a change, telling me they didn’t agree with the grainy beard, the pokey eyes or the soft hands. The novel moved on, they moved on, growing up, becoming defined as individuals in a world I had created.

Slight fear had overtaken me. Had I gotten to a point in which they ruled what was to happen and not me? If that were so, how would I know how the novel would head?

I wanted to change them. I wanted to impose my point of view and not theirs. It didn’t work.  Now I must work with them in order to see if we can come up with an agreed ending, a defined rhythm, heck, even the color of the house they live in.  It seems as though I’m a slave to my own creativity.

I got to admit, I like it, though it sometimes frustrates me. Perhaps this post was just a creative rant, a moment of weakness in a usually steady flow of creativity, but it felt from the skies at the right time to let out my frustrations.

I will work with them. But not right at this moment, I’ve just gotten an emergency call. One of our machines is needed in the hospital.