There are days when I wake up with a perfectly reasonable list of things to do.
Laundry. Dishes. Emails. Groceries. Possibly locate the surface of my desk beneath the notebooks, coffee cups, and evidence of several abandoned organizational systems.
Then one of my fictional people develops a problem.
And apparently that is the emergency we are dealing with now.
A Completely Sensible Change of Priorities
I know the laundry is real.
I can see it.
It has formed a small, judgmental mountain and appears to be gaining political influence.
But the laundry is not standing in a rainstorm after making the worst emotional decision of its life.
My character is.
So naturally, I sit down to write for “just a few minutes.”
This is the first lie.
The Fictional Emergency Department
Writers spend a surprising amount of time responding to crises that do not technically exist.
Someone has discovered a secret.
Someone else is about to betray the group.
Two people who are very obviously in love have chosen silence, hostility, and several chapters of unnecessary suffering.
Meanwhile, my real-life responsibilities wait nearby like adults who have seen this behavior before.
The dishes know better than to expect immediate action.
The email inbox has begun sending follow-up emails about its previous emails.
The groceries are still only a concept.
“I’ll Stop After This Scene”
This is the second lie.
Scenes do not end politely.
They drag another scene behind them.
Then a line appears that changes something three chapters later, so I have to go fix that before I forget.
Then I remember an earlier conversation that needs one more sentence.
Then I look up and the sun has moved, the coffee is cold, and the laundry mountain has annexed a chair.
But the chapter works.
Priorities.
To Be Fair, They Started It
I did not ask these people to appear in my head and begin making poor decisions.
I gave them names, histories, complicated feelings, and free will.
That last part was probably a mistake.
Once characters begin feeling real, it becomes difficult to leave them halfway through an argument while I go clean the kitchen.
They will still be there when I return, of course.
But they will be standing in exactly the same emotional disaster, staring at me.
It feels rude.
Eventually, Reality Files a Complaint
At some point, I do have to return to ordinary life.
Clothes must be washed. Food must be obtained. Emails must receive sentences that are not dialogue from Chapter Twelve.
I am aware of this.
I am a responsible adult.
Just not always in the order anyone would recommend.
Sometimes the fictional people get rescued first.
Then the dishes.
The Strange Joy of Choosing the Story
Honestly, I love that a story can still pull me in that completely.
I love when the next sentence feels more urgent than the tidy list I made that morning.
I love when imaginary people surprise me, frustrate me, and demand my attention like they have somewhere important to be.
The responsibilities will wait for a little while.
Stories do not always wait so patiently.
Sometimes they arrive with momentum, and the best thing I can do is follow them before the door closes.
So yes, I may have ignored several practical tasks today.
But good news:
The fictional people are still in trouble.
They are just in much more interesting trouble now.
If your own plans have ever been derailed by one scene that refused to let go, you may also enjoy I Was Only Going to Fix One Scene.