Tell me your story, Christine

There's a story lurking about my brain. I was driving home tonight from a party, alone, darkness all around. I've long thought one of the scariest things that could ever happen would be to sit in the driver's seat of your car and have a hand grab you from behind. I've spent many a breathless moment checking the back of the car before turning it on. Call me a hypochondriac, but it scares me.

As I checked the back seat tonight, something was there, in the shadows waiting for my tired brain to notice. The first inklings of a story, wanting to come out of hiding. Problem is, it's still there, on the edges of my consciousness, not yet ready to form into coherent thoughts.

In this story, the girl, her name is Christine. I heard a song on the radio about a Christine as I pulled onto my street. It fit. That's her name. But the man in the back seat, him I'm not too sure about. I don't think he's human—at least not completely. I don't think he's all bad, either. He calls her name, softly, gently, to catch her attention as he wraps his hand around her mouth. She must be silent, but I'm not sure why. Who is after her? This man wants to help, to stop something, but that something . . . is . . . what?

Therein is the problem. I know her. She's a poor college student, frustrated after a day waitressing and ready to cry herself to sleep. Only a few more months in school and she'll be done, ready to find a real job with real money and respect. But this man, this thing in her backseat, he's going to interrupt that, I just don't know how.

For me, this is how stories start. The first inklings in the brain, a tickle, almost, of my waking thoughts by something deeper, more primal. People and things inhabit these recesses of my brain, filtering out in a trickle at times, or in torrents at others. Some characters are shyer than others. Not in the traditional sense, but in that they tell me their story slowly, not wanting me to get too close. Not yet.

I have too many of these stories, floating about in my brain. Too many to put them all to words. So I listen to the loudest, the ones who are begging the most to get out. I keep notes on the others, letting them have a few words until it's there turn.

Christine, now I think she's going to be a hard one for me. I can see her, crying in the car, leaning her forehead against the steering wheel moments before the hand covers her mouth and yanks her back against the seat. I can see her, but I can't see him, and I don't know him. Until I do, she's going to float at the back of my mind.

It may well be that she'll speak to me as I drift off to sleep. Or when I'm writing to get my frustrations out, as Jessamine did. Or when I'm eager to put a story to words, as Sarah did. Or when I need to express my darkness, as Patience did. Or when I want adventure in my life, as Cara has been doing.

They're all women, yes I realize this. It's because I seek for strong women in my life. I want to be a strong woman. So if I can imbue my characters with love, strength, humor, and persistence, maybe I'll have some of those qualities in my life as well. I can hope.

It's late now, and though I have found inspiration when fatigued, tonight is not the night that Christine will speak to me. Maybe soon, but unfortunately, her story may have to wait until I've finished telling Jessamine's. But if Christine will tell it quickly and keep it short, I may be able to purge her story from my life and put it to paper. There she will haunt me still, but only as the specter of a story that has been told and that now is clamoring for an audience.