Where Do Characters Come From? -or- The Character's Roots.

        Sometimes I have to laugh at myself.  Right now I am laughing because most all of the characters in my stories and poems come from/are real people.  Real "characters".  For instance, I had this idea for a story once but I had no idea who the main boy was going to be.  But I did know it had to be a boy.  I had never written a story in a boy's point of view, and I wanted to experiment with it.  Would it even sound right?  The boy, the character that I needed was like a black face on a rainbow hard-covered book.
    One day in study hall I saw these two freshman sitting across from each other.  Just two random people in a cafeteria full of hard-working study hall students.  Something about the two of them stood out from the rest to me.  Like bright pink in a sea of black.  They were talking so quietly.  He reminded me of an awkward, trembling mouse, with wispy golden hair and tight movements, as if he hadn't been oiled in years, like a tin man.  But she was different.  Just by looking at her from across the room, as I was, staring, you could tell.
       Her face and lips were both in the shape of hearts.  She looked sweet.  Her eyes were big and brown, with gray plaid converse.  The brown ringlets that seemed to always be the same bounced and moved on their own, seeming to love her too.
        He seemed to loosen up around her.  I usually feel bad for people like this, but this time all I felt was curiosity.  I wanted to know who he was.   What he liked.  What he wanted   So I made him up instead.
      
       The story that I brought him into is about fifteen pages long so far.  Maybe more.  I haven't picked it up in a while but I might soon. 
        The reason I have to laugh, is because now when I look at McCoy, the "he" I described in study hall ( I found his name in the school paper) I don't see a boy from school.  I see the boy from my story.  The boy who at night would get out of bed and run down the road to the harbor, to his small boat, and row out to the middle. Who would sleep in front of the dark sky, drifting, alone.
         When the boy in my story got a bit boring, I spiced up his character by telling through the pen that he was in love with his best friend, the girl in study hall.  But he never really showed any affection for her, in his real life (the story) or at school.  He was too afraid.
         I have to laugh.  Or sigh, because what I do with people in my stories affects how I see them in real life.
     ALL of my major characters in my all of my stories came from, are real people.  I want to thank them for being who they are-because they had a "good character".  But I also spice them up.  Or tone them down, depending on the character.
      That's why it is so weird to see the real people.  Because it isn't just the person standing in front of me that I see.  I see my character, someone a little different than the one across the cafeteria, or that cousin, or my best friend.
     When I create people in my stories from actual people, I throw some traits in the pot, and others are changed.  I stir it up quickly and pour in one drop of my magic, and bing* there they are, standing on the page.
          Writing is like another galaxy to me.  A great, wonderous galaxy where whatever I imagine and decide simply happens.  In this galaxy there are many worlds.  Each story is one of these worlds.  Every one, different and special.