It had been awhile since we last spoke: several years, in fact. Once, we were like siblings, except closer. Then we drifted apart, as siblings often do. I got on with my life. Who knows what he did.
Then, a few Saturdays ago, whilst on my way home from writers’ group, suddenly he was there, talking so loudly that I had to stop at the nearest park bench, and write down what he was saying. Fortunately, an appropriate bench was nearby (thank you, Doncaster Museum).
His name is Sam Florescu, and he’s a character. Quite a character, at least I hope so. And he’s back.
Why do characters drift in and out of a writer’s life? I can’t imagine it’s just me who finds herself totally absorbed – to the extent that any writer with a “day job” can be – with one character, only to have the fictional equivalent of a falling out with them, followed by a fresh love affair with another.
Other than being my creation, Sam Florescu and I have little in common. Compared to him, my life is as dull and sober as an overcast April sky.
Sam’s back, bringing chaos and distraction in equal measure, complaining about his complicated love life, when it’s him that’s to blame. Or me.
It’s teatime, Sam. Pull up a chair, have a cuppa, and make yourself at home. Or should I say “pufta buna“?