Millie Writes: Characters

The imagination behind the stories of Millory A. Torres, Authorette.

Nobody is asking, but I feel like I need to get something off my chest.

Our lives really aren’t plot-driven. They’re character driven. If we’re going shopping in Publix, people are there, and every one of them brings some sort of attribute that they wear on a sign on their chest. “Quirky”. “Picky about Bananas”. Possibly “Too Short For Top Shelf Work.” And somehow, I snatch up all these signs, put them in my basket, and take them through the checkout.

Some time— hours, days, years — later I check the bin and pull out a few. Cross reference with names, personal data, and validate their suitability for exposure to small nervous dogs, and add water. Sometimes tea. Sometimes coffee with additives.

Poof. Character.

Then it gets interesting. They take a seat on the porch. We talk. Laugh. Tell stories. And before long, I’m taking notes about the time they were six, sledding down a hill in the winter by their house and lifting up their head half a second before planting their forehead into the bottom board of the gate that, of course, is across the fastest path going down the hill.

“But why was the gate closed?!”

“Because I was six and didn’t want to walk all the way down there, open it, and then come back up to the top. It’s a long walk.”

“You could have sledded down, opened it, and then continued on.”

That’s when the awkward silences show up. I attribute it to brain damage from slamming into wooden gates at formative ages.

Characters bring me joy, inspiration, sadness, and reflection on what matters most in life. And they give me a method of sharing those emotions, in ways that are probably somewhat ineffective, but are mostly legal.

I was talking with an intelligent young lady a few weeks ago. Her name, it turns out is Sky, because she is a member of one of the tribes, and her profession is piloting small air charters. I asked her why she chose that profession. She took a moment, gathering thoughts, before looking at me and giving me her story.

“My dad was a pilot. And my uncle Charlie, his brother. Dad taught me a lot about flying small planes when I was a teenager. But even before that, he would take me up quite often.” She crossed her ankles and looked out at the street, sipping her tea. “I like to fly. And I’m glad I can, but there are days that I wonder why I’m where I’m at.”

“Would you be a pilot today without your dad’s influence?” I asked, desperately trying to not lead the witness.

“Probably not. I wouldn’t even have known that was something that’s a good fit for me.” We sat for awhile, watching the street.

“Parents have a great deal of influence.” My ability to be supportive is often strained once the conversations steer away from humorous threads.

“Well, I’m glad my dad wasn’t in a circus, or something like that,” Sky added, pulling us away from the edge.

I never really know who’s going to show up. But when they do, we usually have a good chat. I often get some surprises. They decide if they like me or not. Sometimes we sign a contract to continue negotiations, and sometimes they walk away. I suspect, when that happens, they go right to the airport and fly back to the the mainland, probably back to where they came from in the first place.

But I’ll never know for sure. And, somehow, I’m ok with that.

-Mills