Full disclosure: I don’t do well with drama.
I once had a boy (space) friend say that he couldn’t date me anymore because he could never gauge what I was thinking or feeling. “It unnerves me,” he said. “I can’t climb over your wall.” That’s well and good, sir, but I’ve never been one to keep hearts on the sleeves of my cardigans. Black polka dots, maybe. If the moon is full.
My protagonist, given that she began as a younger twisty extension of myself, feels the same way. These days, she’s morphed into her own lady, which was my intention, but the threads are still there, the quarter notes. Our manifesto? There’s too much shit going on for us to pause, reflect, and carry around buckets for our crocodile tears. Sullen looks are beneath us. When we brood, we do so in secret.
Thus comes the dilemma – getting the shape of the fight “the DRAMAZ” on the page. There’s a physicality to crafting emotions. Is this too much? Would she really say that? Don’t lose sight of who she is in this moment. Sometimes there’s weight in her silence. She says a lot in her movements. The way her brow furrows. The cross of her arms. Shifting from one side to the other. And if you look at her long enough, if she’ll allow you to, you might catch that moment.
A heart in a fist that quivers.