They stare at me, others hide under my bed, night after night, wondering when I’ll move them along, let them complete the present chapter in their lives. As it is, their agitation and plaintiff faces and disgruntled voices cast anxiety over my day and into the night, making restful sleep difficult, fitful, unlikely. A few of the players in my story have been with me in my first two novels of my mystery trilogy. They’ve experienced me halt their progression before in A Venomous Cocktail and then again in Twisted Minds, but never for this long. I’m certain the old timers have told the new actors that this is not normal.
There’s a screeching, a cacophony of: What the hell? What’s up?
I hear their fear that I’ll never return, never keep my promise to them.
There are recriminations.
It’s painful…
And worrisome.
Each cast member—except maybe a few of my walk-ons—knows that I have the script in my head as to where he or she is headed in my current tale–which I do, mostly; however, I’ve not shared the plot. I’ve kept them in the dark, and it’s a good thing, because lately I’ve been hearing their chatter, along with the word-on-the-street which is: they are considering taking off without me, settling their own issues, plotting their personal destinies—maybe, even, taking a dip in someone else’s novel.
Defection.
A full-on renegade.
Who could blame them?
Not me, but…
I do have a reason for my desertion from their lives, their destiny. My justification for my inattention lies in my distress. Something my characters wouldn’t understand, since they live back in 2014, before the November 2016, USA election.
I hope the players in my novel aren’t listening right now—being I’m far away from my night’s sleep—but most often these days, the conjured characters of my imagination seem inconsequential, irrelevant…and frankly, frivolous.
When I try to escape into their lives to keep my promise to bring their dilemmas to a conclusion, I feel like I’m wasting my time.
So I stay away from them in the day, even though I know that I’ll end up enduring their nightly hauntings.
These days I’m invested in the reality of this country, compelled to engage in playing my part to combat the immorality, the criminality, the false sense of righteousness, and the greediness displayed in too many members of our country’s leadership; these supposed public servants who betray a commitment to our nation’s core values; these leaders who plot—in real time, in real life—to take away, instead of enhance; these leaders who fill their own pockets and egos with money and power at the expense of those with little of either; and I’m especially disgusted with the the leaders who turn their heads to it all, out of cowardliness or out of personal job related preservation.
For now, my book’s characters are stuck in my head. I have considered the possibility that I may never be able to keep my promise to them, as I spend my time writing letters and emails, signing petitions, calling politicians, educating myself and others to what’s going on, and planning and hanging out at protests.
How long will all this last? It seems already a lifetime.
For certain, this is not the country I want to live in.
It’s not the country I, as a future ancestor, want to leave to my family, or the families of my friends, or the families of this country.
So for now, I neglect my writing and promises to my fictional characters and their world, so I can keep an inherent promise, as a citizen, to preserve a democracy–albeit imperfect. At this point, I need to do whatever I can to help write a good ending to the reality of the country my grandchildren
and their grandchildren and their grandchildren…will live in.
And I’ll put up with the hauntings under and around my bed. 
(To learn about the Wind Walker, scroll down.)