My characters from Book 2 of the rabbi series made me cry last night. I’m not normally one for tears, so this was fairly significant.

Husby jokes that I have a sadistic streak, that I get some perverse pleasure out of making their lives not only difficult but sometimes downright impossible. I have a slightly different view. I ask them to give something of themselves that they’re not sure they have. I know they can, but I created them, after all. I know just how far I can push them. But they don’t know, and growth is often painful.

Last night I finished writing a major scene, the big near-book-end conflict. I’ve been imagining this playing out for the past couple of weeks, though I wasn’t sure about the details. This far through a book, I have a general outline (I work from a real calendar) but leave the specifics up to the writing process. Last night’s scene didn’t happen anything like I thought it would.

I didn’t think anyone was going to die.
I didn’t think there’d be quite so many injuries.
I thought a different character was going to bring about the resolution.

At the end of the scene, I literally wanted to hold them. I wanted to apologize for putting them through what I did, but at the same time explain why it was necessary. I didn’t get the chance.

Because before I could do anything, they reached out to each other.

And I cried.