She has a character, at least she believes she does. She sketches out a paragraph. She can picture her character down to the mismatched socks found under her bed in the early hours of the morning. Her closet is a mess, but her room always spotless. She colors her hair after a seemingly important event, takes scissors to it whenever she feels burdened by its length and heavy with regret, and trims it only after midnight. Her habits are understandable, and easy for her to write about. However, she lacks depth in the most relatable of circumstances, and comes off callous and sarcastic when expected to be sweet or romantic. This won’t do. What she doesn’t understand about her character is the charge behind her, or why she feels the need to say things to others that leave them bitter and unsure. This isn’t important though, because writing a complex character involves time and practice, far beyond the reaches of what a single paragraph can accomplish. The most imperative skill at this point involves experience of some sort, which she knows is required to move forward. The character remains the same over time, especially now, because a character is all she has. The environment is self explanatory, but the plot has changed drastically, and formed into a mundane flood she can’t reel in. This worries her because it is presumed her character will inevitably be rewritten and revised in the next few pages, but with what she is unsure. It feels like an echo building within her, the same woes with the same villains and same side characters developing beside one another. She scratches them out, hitting delete excessively until the page is clean. Her editors tell her that this is okay. She tries to believe them, but everything feels askew, as if all she knows now is the name of her character and not much else. This is problematic because now the style is slipping out of her grasp as she drums on her keyboard and processes what she knows, which is not a lot.