Crows
The snow vanished over night and the crows returned to finish off the elderberries on the tree by the rubbish shed. The world is still, poised between seasons. My task is still undone. I have come to realize that one part of my resistance has to do with how I view this manuscript. To me, it’s not words on paper, or on my hard drive. It’s real characters, real stories. It is as hard for me to change them as it would be to try and change the character or the past of a loved one.
People I love may have flaws, but I love them as they are and although I sometimes wish for their sake that I could, I would never attempt at changing them. It is simply impossible. And their stories are as they are.
It surprises me when I hear people comment on stories in books as being unrealistic. Real stories in real life are so often utterly unrealistic. Created stories must inevitably be constructed with building blocks from real life. Hence they are as realistic, or unrealistic, as those in life. Characters in literature as irrational as those in life.
That said, of course there is scope for improvement in the telling. There always is. But then there is also always the risk that changes will not improve, but destroy. It’s a bit like building a house, then being told to dismantle the whole construction and build another one from the pieces. Will it look or function better?
