So, today I invented an entire person just so I can kill them off. Start to finish, her short life is about six pages before she dies an untimely, yet horribly convenient death. Poor thing doesn’t even have a name.
I’m not one of those people who cries a lot writing scenes like that for my own books, but I’ll cry buckets over other people’s characters.
Maybe it’s because my own characters continue to exist for me–and I know that no matter how dead they are in that time line, they’re still alive and well in my notebooks. Maybe suspension of disbelief is harder for me as a writer than it is as a reader. I don’t know.
In my first book–my very first ever finished, book-length book type book–I killed my main character’s husband. Then, I un-killed him in revision. Then, I erased his existence and brought him back a second time. The truth is, I have no idea why she had a husband, in the first place, and that one character made so much work that I’m pretty quick to kill off future characters.
Characters were the big problem in that book. I had too many. And I didn’t like the ones I needed to like. Not, of course, in the sense that I wouldn’t go out and grab a cheeseburger with them. But in the sense that I didn’t like working with them.
The pure novelty of writing a novel got me through writing that one, and the terror that I might never do it again got me through the revising.
What I should have done… what I hope I now have the sense to do… is write another novel.
And another one.
It’s so easy to get trapped in revising “THE” novel. It’s harder to get trapped in “a” novel.