Listen to your characters -- often, they know more than you do.

"Come in, Randy," I say.  We've been working together for a couple of months now, but I still can't get used to how tall he is.  I've written him as six-six, but I have a hunch he's even taller.  But he's comfortable with his height, walks with an easy grace across my office and settles himself on the couch.

I remember his awkwardness at our initial interview.  Like he was afraid it was a stereotypical casting couch and he might have to 'buy' his way into the job, or I was going to make sure he could handle the sex scenes. 

"What can I do for you?" I ask. 

His lips curve up in a shy smile and he shoves a lock of hair off his forehead.  "I…um…I had a suggestion.  For my character." 

I give him my full attention now.  He's never demanded—heck, he's never even suggested anything.  Maybe he's nervous.  We're about to get into his first real sex scene with Sarah.  It's not like he's naïve or anything, but I know how characters can get self-conscious when they're actually asked to perform on cue.  At least he's not one of the cocky ones, no pun intended, who thinks he can take over the scene. 

"Well, I was looking at the pages.  You know how, afterward, we're sitting around eating pizza.  I'm watching a basketball game, and Sarah's just sitting there trying not to be bored.  I thought maybe you'd let me play piano for her." 

I feel my jaw drop.  I search my memory for his initial interview.  "Piano?  You play the piano?" 

He ducks his head and nods.  "Yeah.  I haven't played in awhile—long story, old memories.  But after working with Sarah on this book thing, well, she's made me a lot more comfortable with my past, and I'd like to get back into it.  I thought it might work for the story." 

"You can really play the piano?" I ask, sounding too much like a babbling idiot than a writer in control of the manuscript. 

"Would you like to hear?" he asks. 

"No, that won't be necessary.  I believe you.  What's your preference?" 

He shrugs.  "Doesn't matter.  I play it all.  Classical, rock, jazz.   I worked my way through college playing in lounges." 

Okay, so now I'm scribbling notes.  "You can do Simon and Garfunkel?" 

He grins.  "Piece of cake." 

"What about something melancholy?  One of those things that make the world stop?" 

"I think I can handle that.  Beethoven's Pathetique should work." 

I stand and walk around the desk.  He remains seated, not because he's rude, but he knows our eyes will be level.  I shake his hand.  "Take a couple of hours off while I rewrite.  See you at three." 

"Will do.  I'll go home and practice."  He stands, towering above me.  I study his hands and now understand why I described them the way I did on page 26.   

I watch him leave, wondering if he'll like the scene coalescing in my head.  It'll mean a bit of a rewrite.  Will he be able to handle an on-scene emotional breakdown, or will I have to write it in Sarah's POV?  I turn back to my computer and open a new document.  I hear him whistling Bridge Over Troubled Water as he walks away.