Post Haste

Well, then. Ahem. Ahem. I've just been looking over that excerpt in my last post, and thinking it over (with a little sage advice from some trusted friends. You know, the sort of friends who aren't afraid to take the car keys from you when you've just downed six bottles of Beaujolais and are about to show everyone how you can drive like the Stig off "Top Gear".)
Basically, my heroine is starting to annoy me. Well, she is meant to be a bit of an annoying character. But rather like the great Edward Gorey's "Mr Earbrass", I find it disconcerting when a character starts to assume a fitful reality on their own account. She may not have peculiarly unpleasant nubs on her greatcoat, but she is insisting rather a lot on telling the story in her own way. And if there's one thing I haven't got the patience for, it's a fictional back-seat driver.
So what to do? I could, of course, abandon her. I could erase her files, delete the post, put my pencilled notes on the fire. I have the power! Take that, mere paper person! I don't care what it says in "The Matrix", I made you, and I can snuff you out any time I choose!
But I still have some faith in the idea behind "Writer 51". After all, they got themselves born all on their own, without the say-so of any one creator. And that's such an impressive achievement in itself for someone who isn't actually real, that I feel they should be given a fighting chance.
So, back to the drawing board. Even as I write here, I feel an Idea coming on, haha... No, not that Idea, Lobachevsky. Athough... wait a minute... do I still have those inedited sheaves filched from Italo Calvino's wastepaper basket? I do? It might just be worth a shot! (Faint cries of "It'll never work, Carruthers!", "Don't do it, you mad fool!", "You'll never get away with this!", in the background. Fades to black, dot. Dot. Dot...)