It's early dark, the sun set hours ago. I'm driving east to meet a friend, the first woman I met in Los Angeles. Hard to believe that was so many years ago. I remember staying in her house and the mutual inspiration, the years of adventures we later had in the Future (the name we affectionately called the house we bought together).
We had been trying to meet up for several months, but our travel schedules were opposite. Finally, for one day between trips, we found ourselves in our same city. We met at a natural cuisine restaurant on Hillhurst. I don't make it much outside my West Hollywood borders these days and I forgot how much I love this street with it's restaurants (many new ones!) and boutique shops. I've got to get over there more often.
So here I was, back with my Future pardner and we're catching up and talking about our writing projects. I tell her about my films, she about her hard-boiled screenplay and book. We're talking about the writer's craft, and I ask her, if her characters have taken on a life of their own. Oh yes she replies, telling me her characters are very different from the way she initially envisioned them. Surprising to her and also challenging.
I experienced this with my recent screenplay stories. The characters I envisioned at the onset, change as I bring them into this reality through these letters, words. As Steven Pressfield would say, it's the muse talking through my fingers. These stories are not mine, but use me to express themselves, to manifest - often out of the collective unconsciousness.
The best advice given to her, "Write ferociously."