"I'm at the mercy of whatever character comes into my head"
About this Quote
A lot of writers talk about "craft" the way carpenters talk about joints: precise, controlled, repeatable. Kate DiCamillo blows a hole in that fantasy. "I'm at the mercy of whatever character comes into my head" sounds breezy, even self-deprecating, but its sting is real: the best part of storytelling isn't mastery, it's surrender.
The intent is partly protective honesty. DiCamillo, a children's author whose books often carry quiet sorrow under their warmth, frames inspiration as an external force. That move does two things at once. It deflates the romantic myth of the author as god-architect and replaces it with the author as caretaker: someone responsible for following through on an arrival, not manufacturing one on command. "Mercy" is the key word. It's not "guided by" or "inspired by". It's helplessness, a little fear, and a tacit admission that characters can demand moral attention. If a character shows up wounded, lonely, reckless, the writer doesn't get to look away without betraying the work.
Context matters: DiCamillo writes for young readers, where the margin for falseness is thin. Kids can smell a didactic puppet. Her line argues that believable characters aren't designed to serve a lesson; they interrupt the lesson, complicate it, insist on their own stubborn interiority. It's also a quiet rebuke to productivity culture's obsession with hacks and output. Her process, she implies, isn't a pipeline. It's a visitation.
The intent is partly protective honesty. DiCamillo, a children's author whose books often carry quiet sorrow under their warmth, frames inspiration as an external force. That move does two things at once. It deflates the romantic myth of the author as god-architect and replaces it with the author as caretaker: someone responsible for following through on an arrival, not manufacturing one on command. "Mercy" is the key word. It's not "guided by" or "inspired by". It's helplessness, a little fear, and a tacit admission that characters can demand moral attention. If a character shows up wounded, lonely, reckless, the writer doesn't get to look away without betraying the work.
Context matters: DiCamillo writes for young readers, where the margin for falseness is thin. Kids can smell a didactic puppet. Her line argues that believable characters aren't designed to serve a lesson; they interrupt the lesson, complicate it, insist on their own stubborn interiority. It's also a quiet rebuke to productivity culture's obsession with hacks and output. Her process, she implies, isn't a pipeline. It's a visitation.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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