I recently finished the first draft of my second novel. It takes place three years after my first novel, Stay Back! ends. It’s a continuation of sorts and puts John Butterfield of Stay Back! in the midst of the September 11th attacks.
 
My husband read through the manuscript and shared his thoughts. He also asked some hard questions. Questions about the characters’ motives. Questions about plot nuances. And now I’m stuck. I’m at a fork in the road and need these characters to tell me what they want to do next. Alas, they’ve gone silent on me. I need to wait for them to talk, but I can’t wait forever or I’ll never get this book out there. So, my choices are: wait, or try to jam them into an as of yet undefined agenda. I’m leaning toward waiting.
 
Sometimes the characters I dream up become so real to me that I see and hear elements of them in random people who cross my path. A wayward tuft of hair. A particular way of walking. A vocal nuance. From a distance and up close these characters exist as if they walked off the page and into the world. And that’s precisely when they fledge and establish lives of their own. I simply must let them. Even if it means cooling my jets for a few days or weeks or however long it takes them to stir out of hibernation. 
 
I have to remind myself that once on paper, the characters are not mine to control. They want the freedom to do what they will – the freedom to live their lives outside of the boundaries on the roadmap in my head. And my characters' insistence on freedom and autonomy is what makes my job as a writer so difficult. Sometimes I want them to go north. Often, they want to go south. Sometimes we collide in the middle of the road like Dr. Seuss’ North Going Zax and South Going Zax and an impasse inevitably ensues. We stubbornly stand face to face, neither willing to step aside or compromise. Life happens all around us and nothing [worthwhile] gets written. Writer’s block soon follows and only breaks when I give in to their whims.

For my birthday this year, my husband fulfilled a promise to have an osprey platform installed at the end of a dock in the marina behind our house. He’d gotten the necessary buy-in from the HOA and set forth to find a supplier of such things. Turns out our community landscaper knows a guy who knows a guy who builds osprey platforms.
 
Three weeks ago, this guy and his assistant showed up, and within an hour they had created a palace fit for an osprey king.
 
For the week or so that followed, we waited. Excitement built like the last moments in a pregnancy, when you know the baby could come at any point within that time. Every morning I popped out of bed and went straight to the window hoping to see a bird or even a delivered stick – any indication that the platform had been claimed.
 
The ospreys began trickling into the area. They seemed weary from migrating all the way from their winter homes in South America to their summer homes on the Eastern Shore. We saw one circling the river near the park. Then we saw another. And another. Long established nests dotting the area were beginning to show signs of life. We even saw one flying around our creek. But our platform seemed undiscoverable. It sat furtively, blending in so well with the backdrop of trees and sailboat masts that I wondered if perhaps, to the bird, it was invisible.
 
And then it happened, although not in the way that we expected. An eagle decided to sit on our platform. Within seconds an osprey appeared, unintimidated by the fact that an eagle is a much bigger bird. The osprey circled and dove around the eagle like fighter jet against a bomber. The eagle eventually retreated and the osprey claimed our platform.
 
The next day, the osprey’s mate arrived. I’ve aptly named them Maverick and Charlie (reference the movie Top Gun). 

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