I was in control. I swear I was.
It didn’t matter that the opening scene that came to me was in first person. I’m the author, right? If I wanted to work my way around that, it was my right, my prerogative. I had it all worked out. The journal entries would be in first and the rest would be in close third, alternating POVs from the heroine and hero’s perspectives.
Then I sat down to work on that opening scene. The first half went well enough, then I started to struggle. For two days I wrestled with the same paragraph. Elodie just clammed up. Wouldn’t say a word.
I’m supposed to be in first person. You’re supposed to let me talk. I told you this when I first started keeping you up at night, so I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.
Because I am the author, damn you! This is my call!
And she just sat there, looking at me with that insolent expression that only teenagers can manage.
So I gave in. I admit it. Despite all my training in psychology and my knowledge that you have to be firm as a parent and all that stuff, I gave in to this girl and let her have the scene in first. And spewed out 900 words in an hour.
I told her not to let it go to her head.
Seriously though, this drives me nuts. I don’t like first person. I haven’t written anything in first person in about eight years. And even then it was just a once in a while occurrence. But the book demands what it demands.
What do you do when your characters organize a mutiny?