The bar in my head

Hi lovelies!

I was reading my friend Manna's blog and came across the most beautiful image of the brain of a writer that I had to share it. Her blog is definitely worth checking out for writing tips and insights into her writing journey. 

She described her mind as being a bar filled with her characters that she could dip into at any time. I loved this image because it gives you this sense that as writers our characters are alive beyond the moments we call on them to appear on the page. When we turn away from the computer they get up for another drink, start a game of pool and live out a life without us watching them. Or in my case right now with Maeve, putting the poor girl through a world of hurt (sorry kiddo.)

It made me think of what my characters would be like if they were in a bar;

The place itself  would be some 1930’s gin dive with hardwood floors stained darker than Santangelo’s soul. Jade green shades hanging low over secluded booths, velvet backed and with a fog of cigar smoke hanging heavy. A long gold edged bar would take up one entire side, crystal glasses chinking against one another and a bartender dressed in a suit with a holster under his shoulder. He’s pouring amber whisky over ice with half an eye on a TV above his head, pointedly trying to ignore the robots and one Dalek cruising around.

There, in the most strategically placed booth of course, is Santangelo. He’s slouched back into the plush velvet booth, whisky in one hand and cigar in the other. There’s his weapon on the table in front of him holding down a map. Saint’s attention is completely on Ronnie, whose tucked in against his side with her fingers wrapped around the stem of a cocktail glass. She’s talking low to Vin across the table, stabbing a finger down at the map. There’s 1930’s jazz playing around them and Vin will occasionally glare around the room at the other patrons. Santangelo's gaze remains on Ronnie but you can bet your bottom dollar he'd know if someone coughed over the other side of the room. 

There’s the booth with the robots and Dalek of course, though the Dalek is having a hard time getting into the seat.

Then there’s Gabriel sprawled in a booth, leaning forward with his elbows on slightly sticky wood. His hand’s wrapped around a bottle of whatever’s going and he’s telling an old war story. His other hand runs over his whiskers and his gaze will clock over each one of his crew in turn every few minutes. Gabriel wears a contented smile beneath eyes that carry an ancient fire. 

Dex is similarly sprawled, arms hanging over the back of the booth, telling bad jokes one after the other and drinking everything going, including some that's not. His hair is mussed, his tunic is no better and he doesn't remember the last time he had a soak but his smile lights up the place. An easy charm exudes from him, following a voice like honey. 

Irma's feet are tucked up under her, sitting cross-legged on the seat. Long, delicate fingers curl around the stem of a wine glass. Cascading waves of sun-kissed hair fall down around her, stars and beads wound here and there through it. Her lilac eyes are watching everything with that soft way of hers and wherever she looks, peace reigns for a bit. Irma's gaze stays resolutely away from Santangelo and drifts often towards Maeve. 

Logan is in the same booth, as far away from the others as possible without falling out of the booth. A crystal cut glass is precisely turned to the edge of the table, filled with something clear and crisp. His dark hair is neat, unlike the others. His eyes are sharp, not unlike the others. He has seated himself opposite Santangelo, the better to keep an eye on him. A thin line has taken possession of his mouth. There's a data-pad resting by his left hand, formulations scrawled across it. Logan's eyes refuse to go over to Maeve and Taren, creeping so far their way before he grinds his other hand into the wooden table and brings his gaze back again. 

Maeve is in the booth just across from them, close enough to hear Dex's jokes. She's snorting at a particularly bad one, trying and failing to stop it turning into a full blown belly laugh. She is also sat cross-legged on the deep seat though not as gracefully as Irma. She's leaning forward, chin resting on her hand and the emerald eyes turned upwards towards Taren. An expression of peace and adoration has settled on her face much to Logan's disgust. Maeve could not care less if they were in a bar or on the edge of a mountain at midnight, as long as the ice blue eyes she's staring at are there too. Her free hand cups a creamy mug filled to the brim with rich coffee. She's leaning into Taren as she laughs. 

He's looking down at her while she laughs, the corners of his lips twitching as he tries not to. The deep emerald of his cybernetic implant twinkles as he drops a kiss on the top of her head. She leans into him a little more, into the muscled arm looped low around her back. He is slouched into the seat, curled around Maeve, his boots slung up on the opposite seat. The hand not holding Maeve holds a datapad instead where he's scribbling notes and skidding them across to the robot on his other side. Taren is relaxed in the same way a panther relaxes, all whispered menace and coiled limbs.  He raises a middle finger to Logan, matches it with a crooked grin. 

Over the other side of the bar sits an Archangel and the Devil. They're pretending not to know each other.  Two Archangels sit next to the first and a demon sits next to the Devil. They're fine to admit they know each other, they just don't like each other. Samantha and Sebastian. 

One beyond them sits a woman with hair as crimson as the heart of a fire, her face nothing but a mist of shadows. Beside her sits a man wearing crusader armor, or at least, he used to be a man before he lost the ability to look at himself in the mirror. Magic crackles around them like the spitting beginning of a thunderstorm. 

Five officers from a homicide investigation squad for paranormal creatures are their neighbors. Four of them are male and one of them is an alien. The fifth is a woman with darting eyes who sits like she isn't sure what table she is meant to be at. Her face is also missing. 

I think you don't realize how many ideas are bubbling in your brain until you sit down and try to write something like this. Some are my current books or work in progress and some, like the officers are an idea that has yet to be put to the page. Maybe you only know that they will actually get on a page when they get into the bar. Is there a limbo outside where ideas lie? 

What would the bar in your head look like?