Stranger, Indeed.

Sometimes I feel like the things I write are just too much to believe. Sure, everything that I committed to paper or computer screen is make-believe. That's the point of storytelling, but I don't want my readers to have their suspension of belief pushed to the breaking point.

I felt bad about the way I portrayed the teenage sister of one of my characters. She was whiny, obsessive, and a ginormous pain in the butt. "Surely," I thought, "this is has way too much snark-fu. This is unfair and I've stacked the deck. Bad Lynn, bad." A few days later (I'm not even close to exaggerating), my writer's groups was cornered and held hostage by a rabid teenager that made my fictional teen look like Nancy-freaking-Drew. Hand to God, I'm telling the truth. I have witnesses to back me up (scarred and horrified as they may be).

Everyone has their preferences, I guess. Which isn't bad, just immensely interesting. I recently read a review of a book that I loved that was written by an author that I admire (waves). The reviewer had a slight qualm with the extraordinary bad luck of the main character, coupled with the ability to for said main character to miraculously wriggle out of the trouble she got into. I think the reviewer thought the author may have been pushing believability (that's the impression I came away with, anyway). That aspect of the character happened to be completely believable to me, and I loved it. The bad luck didn't phase me one bit. I know people with the bad luck and the phenomenal ability to make it work in their favor, eventually.

No matter how off the wall I think I get, reality always has a way of showing me otherwise. Which is good. It helps to get rid of the self-censorship. So any time I get a little worried about some of the weird things I write, I go out for coffee or a bit of shopping and just listen. I soon feel better.