Three kids jumped off a dam this weekend. I arrived by bike just in time to see them balancing out along the edge of water, the up-river side smooth, the other side dropping in a curtain of white, and one by one, they leapt into the Farmington River. After the third one resurfaced, he waved to me, and I was thankful for the proof he was unharmed. I don’t know if he was ever scared. He seemed joyful.
I was vicariously, too. In real life, I’m rarely the person who jumps, but my heart yearns towards the ones who do.
My characters jump. They have to. It’s grueling sometimes, setting them up and watching while they take risks I would never have the courage to take myself. Then again, there’s a risk in spending over a year writing a book that may or not eventually resonate with readers. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I feel alive.
I guess, in my own way, I’m a dam jumper, too.