I'm writing first-person, from the viewpoint of a male prostitute who has completely submitted himself to an utterly foul, just sickening client who has become so much more, who idolizes and worships this client-lover for reasons I sympathize and empathize with even if I think they're misguided and spineless and confused, and trying to slip into his viewpoint ... recognizing that all characters come from _me_, and that this wormy subjugated naive little cretin is derived of _me_, and knowing I'm going to be with him for quite some while and that he'll only change gradually, and not necessarily in the ways _I_ would like him to change ...
My instinct is to rush him forward into whom I want him to be, but that's cheating, and worse than writing nothing at all.
Yeah. It's hard, but the story demands it. I'm seething with anger and frustration and getting a headache, but I'm not about to shy away from this. Through pain I'll produce power.
I had to let that loose, to tell _someone_ and not just the little journal I keep.
My instinct is to rush him forward into whom I want him to be, but that's cheating, and worse than writing nothing at all.
Yeah. It's hard, but the story demands it. I'm seething with anger and frustration and getting a headache, but I'm not about to shy away from this. Through pain I'll produce power.
I had to let that loose, to tell _someone_ and not just the little journal I keep.