Today, however, as I drove the long trek from home, then to pick up our lovely carpooling friend, then to the eldest child's school, then to the bus stop for the middle and youngest child, then off to work...they came to me.
(...or perhaps the aurora borealis)
And, of course...I had no pen. No pen or paper to memorialize their dire warnings and their realizations. Surely, somewhere under my wallet...and Epi-pen...and cell phone...and unpaid bills...and the single child's sock...somewhere there had to be a pen and a scrap of paper. And yet my eager fingers that rummaged through my purse found nothing but loose receipts and change and half a mint.
So I did the only thing I could; I chanted the precious bits of new information like a mantra all the way to work. I repeated it while stuck in traffic. I muttered it while I maneuvered through the construction zone. I whispered it while yielding for pedestrians.
Then I drove up the six stories of the parking garage, found my self-appointed parking spot next to my dearest friend's car, and scurried in to work so that I could engage in a much-needed "information dump" at her desk before dashing to my own overflowing work space to scrounge for a pen and paper.
My characters tell me things in their own time...much like my eldest daughter, teetering on the brink of tweendom. And, as with my daughter, when my characters finally relinquish some thought, or insight, or precious bit of their heart...I listen. I relish it. I store it away. They are my children, too. Their births were also long and painful and memorable.
Like my children, my characters seem to want to talk when I am in the shower, or making dinner, or trying to do something else that requires my attention.
But you make time, because they are worth it.
You stop the world, if you have to.