A thread on weblit.us got me thinking about character deaths.

There is something intensely satisfying for me in the death of a character. But then, I have always been a glutton for punishment. I love books that make me cry, and killing off someone I like is bound to upset me (duh!).

I’m not talking about killing off minor sidekicks, those characters you put in the story knowing they’re going to die, like how the new recruits in Star Trek were doomed to bite the dust before the episode’s end. I’m talking about real blows, about characters you’ve grown to love that unexpectedly leave, about Sirus’ death (sob! I think I took his death harder than Harry did.).

From a reader’s perspective, a death like that pulls me into the story on a deeply emotional level. Perhaps because it is a safe way to mourn for the little deaths in my own life — the stresses and worries and losses — as it provides a catharsis of sorts. Or because it feels real, far more than any happily-ever-after.

But as an author, killing off your own character is a whole different ballgame. The perks are that you can really dig down into the other characters, because it is their story that matters, their coping with loss that we need to read. The problem is, by killing off a character, you’ve cut off his story. Was it his time?

It’s so tempting to kill someone at the end of a story, where you know it couldn’t have gone further. But, during some recent outlining, I realized that one character needed to go, that maybe their story wasn’t yet told, but life and time waited for no one. So, in my outline, I wrote down that scary four-letter word. (No, not that one. I’m talking about ‘dies’.)

I am steeling myself for when I eventually have to write that scene, because I know it’s going to be a tear-jerking ride. But when I’m done writing, I know it’s going to leave me with that strange satisfaction of the beautifully tragic.

What do you think of character deaths? And when you’re writing, how do you decide when it’s time for someone to die?

We watch what we eat to keep our bodies healthy, but how many of us watch what we read to keep our writing in tip-top shape?

I struggle to understand how some writers can keep churning out work without doing much reading of their own. For me, reading gives me much-needed inspiration, teaches me what to do and not to do, and often brings me new insight on my current projects. Authors are, after all, idea-magpies: we steal the shiny to build our nests stories. But I didn’t fully realize just how much influence my reading choices have on my writing until a few days ago.

I recently finished reading Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy as part of my 100+ Reading Challenge. I hadn’t read a classic in a good while, and although it took a while to sink properly into the style of prose, I found myself ultimately enjoying its complexity (and often unnecessary prolixity).

My own writing is generally direct, unadorned; writing description is one of my weak points. But as I set aside Madding Crowd and took up my writing journal, my pen had a will of its own. Out poured longer sentences, unusual adjectives, descriptions of the minute. Oh, the voice was my own, but changed.

You know when you met a person who speaks English with a different accent from your own, and you really get along? Eventually Accomodation Theory kicks in and you start speaking like them, often without even realizing. That’s what I was doing, but in writing.

All of a sudden it made sense why, when blocked, reading my favourite stories of a similar genre would help me start writing again. I suppose I only conciously noticed it because Hardy’s writing is so different from my own as to make the changes obvious.

Of course, this has a downside: reading too much of one genre or style could not only suffocate my voice, but limit my creativity.

You are what you read. Like with food, watching what you read can be extremely beneficial. And, as with food, a healthy, balanced book diet will ensure you’re at your writing best.

How much attention do you pay to what you read?

Have you ever noticed that your characters slowly grow and evolve, until they take on a life of their own? You’re writing a scene, knowing how it will end, but no! Your characters have a mind of their own and refuse to comply with your demands.

Someone who isn’t a writer may think we are all slightly insane. And perhaps we are. It is kind of odd to think about how much time and energy we invest in people who don’t actually exist.

I’ve been skimming through other writers’ blogs lately, curious to learn about their writing process, sources of inspiration, and more. I can’t remember where, but I stumbled across a blog post on imaginary friends, and, really, what are our characters other than imaginary friends?

I don’t know about you, but I began writing out of loneliness and frustration. There were so many things that child-me did not want to speak about to others, that I made up imaginary friends I could talk to, who understood me and valued me, made me feel part of something greater than myself.

I must have made up hundreds of characters. And when I wasn’t writing about them, I was daydreaming about them, creating a new character when I tired of the previous one.

Slowly I came to realize that all these imaginary friends were actually the same two people–under different names and appearances, in different settings, with different backgrounds, perhaps even different personalities–but with the same soul.

And to this day, I’m still writing about those two imaginary friends of mine.