As a writer, there is no doubt that parts of people I’ve loved, if only momentarily, pours out of me in the lines that come out of my fingers.

The other day, I wrote a line in my most recent work in progress about a woman’s ankles. It was written instinctively, it came out of the character’s mouth as easily as breath, and yet my mind went back to a woman who taught British Literature when I was in college. I no longer remember her name or her face, but I remember her captivating ankles. If I had been gay or a straight man, I’d have attempted a move on her due to her ankles alone. Most of her has vanished from my  memory, but a part of her poured from my soul in the moment I wrote the lines for my character. She touched me. Or her ankles did.

This is a superficial example. I have characters who suddenly spout off a version of my father’s position in our last argument, or my good friend’s confession about her desire for babies, or start to eat pepperoni slices out of a massive bag a la The Pepperoni Lady at my prior job.

If I know you, if I’ve loved you, part of you will pour out of me in these lines from time to time. When and where and what there is no telling or any way to plan, but it will be happen. Because you live in me, some part of you, forever.


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