Writing. One of the most therapeutic and yet, simultaneously, traumatic exercises of the human mind, particularly in the matter of characters. Like they say: no pain, no gain. It’s banging your head against a brick wall until the bricks give way. It’s jumping out of your bathtub and running naked through the streets of Athens. It’s trying to pull open a “PUSH” door. It’s Athene springing from Zeus’ head. It’s singing and vomiting and parkour and drowning and Zumba and flying and childbirth all in one. 

Let me explain.

Some girls get teary-eyed over characters they read about in books, or watch on film. They become attached to the characters; they learn the characters’ personalities, their likes and dislikes, their quirks, their habits, their favorite colors and the reasons they play violins at three in the morning.

Playing a violin at three in the morning can be an endearing habit to, say, a girl who has a crush on that character. But how does that character’s mother feel about that? Or, for that matter, his flatmate?

The writer not only learns and knows these quirks and habits, but creates them, develops them, gifts the characters with them — or, worse, discovers them in a character. Yes, everything people say about characters developing their own personalities is true. Many characters require a lot of development: the writer has to sit down and “manually” decide a character’s height, age, eye color, temperament, birthday, favorite book, favorite piece of jewellery, favorite childhood toy. These characters do just fine in life; they’re the ones who settle down and marry and have 2.1 children and watch football and work for insurance companies. Some characters, however, just walk into a story; sometimes, they saunter in casually as a background character, then become more and more important, until they finally overwhelm the entire plot. Others barge through the front door, tracking in mud all over the Persian rug your aunt brought you back from her last trip, dumping their luggage in the middle of the floor, shouting or singing or whistling or blowing their noses, doing their very best to act like they belong there. 

Yes, Basil, I’m talking about you. 

— but you don’t need to meet him. Not yet. He needs to grow up a little. Sigh. If only that were possible … 

So, yes. Some characters are born, some are discovered, some just gatecrash whatever project the writer is working on at the moment. And when a writer creates or discovers or is gatecrashed by a character, nine times out of ten, that character sticks. Like bubblegum to the underside of a sixth-grade desk. 

And you learn to love them. And you become attached to them (because, as we all know, when you name something, you become attached to it). You begin to understand the violin sessions. You might lose sleep over them, but at the same time, you know your nights would echo with emptiness without them.


You take the character with you, where ever you go, whatever you do. If he behaves himself, you introduce him to your best friends — shyly, cautiously, hoping he make a good impression (“What do you think? Is he too snobby? But he’s really nice, usually …promise!”). You start thinking more and more about him, until you catch yourself and realize you’re obsessed. If he were a real person, it would be called love, but of course, you can’t tell your great-aunt you’re engaged to a figment of your imagination. Sigh. 

And then suddenly, he dies on you.

I mean, think about it. Your favourite character in your favourite TV show on your favourite TV channel pulls a Bunbury and dies (yes, I’m talking about *him.*). Fans shake their fists and blame the director, or the writer, or the actor, but whatchya gonna do? The character is dead. So you pull out your emergency stash of jelly beans/Dove chocolates/jammy dodgers (or what’s left of it — it’s been an emotional season) and curl up in a down comforter and re-watch every episode. Twice.

Writers can’t do that. 

We stare at the screen, that horrid little space bar thingy incessantly blinking — the last inch of space before the fall off the cliff into the oblivion of character Hades. He dies. Wait, what do you mean? That’s not supposed to happen! You shout at the computer; you get up and stomp off to the kitchen for more tea; you come back, and he’s still lying there, the pool of ink slowly congealing beneath his still, cyber-frozen body. 

Fans cannot understand. There is no way to bring back a character. When his time has come, he is gone. When he decides, that decision is final. No amount of re-writing can undo the sight, the image, the vision of the house in flames, the family in funereal black, the broken-hearted heroine cradling the clay-cold head. 


Ok, so it doesn’t happen to every character. Somehow it doesn’t happen to female characters, or dull characters, or evil characters. Is it just me? Is it just a hero thing? This post wasn’t supposed to go all melodramatic, but there you go. Heroes die. Characters die. And after a short time of ultimate misery, the writer slaps herself and opens up that Exel file again. Did she remember to add a column for gas expenses? Drat it. 


Please, call me Blue. The “lady” is in imitation of some of my favorite literary characters: Lady Frankie (Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?), Lady Harriet (Wives and Daughters), Lady Catherine de Bourgh (Pride and Prejudice). The “whimsy” is, well, for the sake of whimsy, as well as for another favourite character — indeed, family of characters: the family Wimsey, Dorothy L. Sayers’ brilliant mystery creation. The “blue” happens to be a nickname assigned when I spent a few months in the company of some half-a-dozen other females who shared my first name; we called it coincidence, but who knows what nefarious plot of the troglodytes of Greek mythology might have brought us together.

Rule #1 of this blog: I like words. I’m a bit of a word nerd, in fact. So, when I have recently been spelunking for verbiage, or just returned from a particularly fruitful deep-dictionary diving, you will hear no end of odd, assorted words. I plan to give you a “whimsical word of the week” for your vocabulary-building exercises, and the scattered strangelings I leave in my wake I will highlight for you to peruse and pursue at your leisure. Hence, troglodyte. Look it up.

You might call me mad. Or, obsessed. Some, perhaps, will say “eccentric” or “bored” or “just plain weird.” But, no worries, I answer to “Blue.”

Beyond the square reaches of the grey, windowless cubicle I call work, and the brownish expanse of Midwestern soybean fields I call home, my mind wanders far and wide in search of adventure. Someday-famed author is only one of the many alter-egos I possess and cherish. Moonlighting as a cookie ninja comes a close second. Amateur time-traveller (as of today; who knows what yesterday may bring), fairy godmother-in-training, never-to-be-yet-always-wishful-linguist, and Calvin-and-Hobbesian also appear on my resume. Well, not the resume my boss sees.

But anywho.

Welcome to Blue Whimsy writing 🙂