Alas, I give in. I give up. I submit. After 19 years, I bow to the original inspiration, the first fruits of my awakening. There sometimes comes a point when a writer’s fancy and a character’s personality are at odds, and the writer can spend many years unwittingly trying to force her character into a mold he does not fit – or she can listen, and respect, and give over striving and write not what she feels she must write, but what is already there.
I know what I wanted for this character, but I have to come to terms not with what I want, but with who he is.
Originally, my 17-year-old mind became enamored of this character, and tried for some time (by which I mean a month or two – time passed differently then) to plant this monk into whatever historical period I desired. I had no interest in the Middle Ages; I held ignorant and stereotypical beliefs regarding this time period, and wanted nothing to do with it. Yet I began to experience a certain literary panic as the more I researched the more this monk moved back in time, ever closer to the dreaded pre-Renaissance period, until I submitted at last and realized I could not even plant him in the “high” Middle Ages, the more palatable phase (in my teen-aged estimation) of the time period. No, he was and is a 12th century monk, and I had to embrace and accept this and immerse myself in medieval studies (worrying all around me with what was erroneously viewed as my “obsession”). How did I, who once was so attuned to the voice of my characters, end up ignoring his signals and gestures and demeanor? He is not a moral hero in the sense I wanted him to be – tempted, yet victorious. Another character must fit that role. His role is to fall, and fall secretly, and tell no one of his sin and thus become an allegorical symbol for guilt. That was my original intent, and, despite all the anachronistic rigmarole I went through in the beginning, that original allegorical impression was and is correct and must be pursued. I must be true to who this character is.
