Licensed Alcohol Caterer California

The weight of consciousness

That Bob and his wife ask me the same problem as the other characters. That is that while the new was going well, placing the characters, the landscape drawing, I block. Which of the two placed in the tower? Or rather, since both worked there, what decision should I take on what happens to them?

I do not know what to do with my problems of consciousness. With this sudden reluctance that prevents me from writing them, because I know what might happen if I put them in the towers. Am I reading too much? As I know too much about what happened that day in September in order to post stories innocently? Or is it something that I spent, made the turn, and I want to write something else? suddenly I dream to write new lyrics, where the only movement of the wind in the flowers (daisies, poppies or tulips?) will provide everything that happens ...

But the problem is that these characters can not help but be New Yorkers. They are, I see them, that would be cheating to suddenly fall in Montreal. It seems to me at least. And not only that I do not want to kill them. I had no real problem to kill Maya, for example. The problem is elsewhere, or deeper. I do not want to hurt them? Strange relationship with fiction, as if these characters are so fragile, sometimes taking few pages, some a few lines, became in my mind as real as James, my character a child who resides two new of around them and I'm still not convinced, three years later, have finished writing.

All I know of events meant that now, by choosing where my characters are, I decide their fate. Impact areas, stairs inaccessible, decisions taken in haste, because anyway, was there really time to weigh the actions when each tower was trying to survive the impact physical holes in its surface, and heat of fire? These decisions are commonplace, fast, have determined the difference for many between life and death. That I can not help but know, and to leave room in the news. This would be a lie, betray the draft, is not it, that writing short stories in which, miraculously, everyone survived? But, going back to an earlier question, who to kill?

I do not know what to do with these doubts, which extend to refusal. I do not know if they are symptomatic of a fundamental problem with the project or If, instead, they are the logical continuation, this time when things get in shape, in place. I know nothing, basically, except that Bob and his wife worked at the World Trade Center, each in their laps, and one of the two, or both, can not help but have something to say. And I guess seems that Helen was in the south tower, at 78 th floor. And that, therefore, his chances are rather slim, and what will happen to him pretty hard. This, if I agree to write.