The piece I mentioned earlier last week, one that a lawyer friend consented to my co-opting is done; however, it turned out nothing like expected. So different, it earned a new title.

Originally, the title was Hiding My Johnson, and yes the tongue in cheek reference was intentional. I believe we both pictured a dark comedy. When I started writing, it was funny, and delivered a few great zingers. With much amusement, I invested several hours per session into the project, growing the story. I laughed at the insanity of their predicament. I had fun. Then events turned.

Something happened between page five and six: the main character and the antagonist started playing different tunes. By page seven, the characters hinted that matters more ominous lay ahead than just black humor. I elected to not analyze, letting the characters run where they wanted; I would count the bodies later. And run they did. Even though I envisioned a dark comedy, the final product is…gasp…horror.

Not sure if it’s scary, so I’ll run it by a few of the Eight and get their take.

Since my head is still in a recent 2,500 mile car trip, and writing is its own journey, an analogy seems fitting. To cast the writing experience in road trip terms, maybe the true role of a writer is to be more an active passenger than a driver. Like the one with the map who highlights alternate routes. Listen more than talk, and suggest on occasion. But ultimately, the decisions are made by other forces in the car.

In other words, duck and get out of the characters way.