A bizarre feeling for which one never prepares herself, because she doesn’t exactly anticipate it coming: elimination of all traces of a character trait you’d built in from before the silly conglomeration of words you haphazardly threw on a page one night even became the skeleton of a novel. It’s more of a misfit detail than a character trait, I suppose, but it isn’t particularly important, and it’s becoming difficult to write-around. So it goes, and so it must go. Strange, though, to strip something from your main character—the first person to ever make it to the page—that, despite the billion ways he’s changed, he’s had from the very start.
There’s no use in looking back, I think. (In more ways than one.)
MT
