Johnny was a soldier--He can't dance anymore
I remember a Reader's Digest story from my childhood. I was somewhere between 7 and 12, probably 11 if I had to guess. The story's two primary characters were a married couple. The husband was a writer, and the part I recall was when the wife walked in on him crying in his office. When she asked what was wrong, he sobbed "I killed him." I was freaked out. She was living with a murderer, that's not what she thought she was getting into! As it turned out, he was talking about one of his characters. She knew right away what he meant. I was baffled. How could a grown man have such difficulty separating fantasy from reality? I was just a child and I knew the difference.
Yesterday, for the first time, I killed one of my characters. My eyes are watering a little just typing this. At the time I was actually writing it, Lisbeth came in the room to ask how the story was coming. I'd told her the plot already, so when I said I was kind of sad, she asked "Because he's dying?" I nodded and started to cry. Vince was dying, right at that moment I was writing his death scene. It wasn't a just death at all, either. He shouldn't have died. But that was really what the story was about. I tried to stifle, and she tried to reassure me that it was okay, that I should let it out, but I managed to cut off my emotions and finish the story. This morning I was typing it out and revising, and when I got to Vince's death I started again, and for real this time. I had to set down my notebook and turn away from the computer.
I realize this looks like it's all about me, and I suppose technically it is, but really it's about Vince. This is his eulogy. He was good, and I liked him. He wasn't someone new, either. He was an old character. He died in his late 20s, but I'd written about him in his teens before. I'd seen Vince grow from a young punk to a grown-up with a job and a mortgage. Not all of that is in the story, but it is in the preliminary stuff I wrote while I was coming to the story. Vince may not have been real, but I felt like I watched him die, and in an attempt to do something good, and at my request. I wish he were real so I could apologize to him.
Yesterday, for the first time, I killed one of my characters. My eyes are watering a little just typing this. At the time I was actually writing it, Lisbeth came in the room to ask how the story was coming. I'd told her the plot already, so when I said I was kind of sad, she asked "Because he's dying?" I nodded and started to cry. Vince was dying, right at that moment I was writing his death scene. It wasn't a just death at all, either. He shouldn't have died. But that was really what the story was about. I tried to stifle, and she tried to reassure me that it was okay, that I should let it out, but I managed to cut off my emotions and finish the story. This morning I was typing it out and revising, and when I got to Vince's death I started again, and for real this time. I had to set down my notebook and turn away from the computer.
I realize this looks like it's all about me, and I suppose technically it is, but really it's about Vince. This is his eulogy. He was good, and I liked him. He wasn't someone new, either. He was an old character. He died in his late 20s, but I'd written about him in his teens before. I'd seen Vince grow from a young punk to a grown-up with a job and a mortgage. Not all of that is in the story, but it is in the preliminary stuff I wrote while I was coming to the story. Vince may not have been real, but I felt like I watched him die, and in an attempt to do something good, and at my request. I wish he were real so I could apologize to him.
posted by seth at 9:10 PM
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