Cows and Fires

My husband knows how to make the perfect steak. He knows how to
marinate it, and he knows how long to leave mine on the grill. You see,
I like my steaks rare. No, I like my steaks to pretend that they’ve
seen the fire from a distance. Purple and juicy and zapping with flavor.
I like my characters the same way.
When
I come away from a book and know what so-and-so would say or do or wear
in a situation different from the book without the author telling me,
"Hey, Gerard is the type who would cling to his mother and can’t make a
decision without her and to some extent is afraid of her." I want to
think I’m smart and can figure this out on my own. (No comment fromt he
peanut gallery, please.)
Sometimes I leave my characters on the
grill too long, grilling them with reflective questions until they’re
tough and almost burnt, well-done instead of delicate and tender.
Sometimes I become more of the psychologist and less of the author.
"How does this make you feel?" I ask.
Of course, psychologists would
probably make great authors. Think of all the interesting characters
they have stocked in the files.
Point being, let the steak moo for itself.