The Master of the Marionettes

It is rather difficult, at times, to be an author. You spend hours, weeks, months, years of your free time with your characters, building them up, giving them goals, and then forcing them to struggle. You purposely place obstacles in their path, usually pulled out of thin air, just to watch them squirm. It is the most terrible form of sadism imaginable. They suffer, for the cruel enjoyment of others. You make these "characters" of yours, who are often so much more real than "real" people, dance. You twirl them around by the cross. They are simple marionettes who must live and die by the whim of their puppet-master. 

Oh God, it is a difficult thing to kill any character, but especially the protagonist of your first novel. And see, today is the 27th day of February. I wrote, on the 24th albeit, for Mark to be shot and killed on the 27th of 2007. I have had a terrible time of it these last two years, coping with the horror of creating a character whom you love but must kill for literature's sake. I killed Mark two years ago; I was the panther in the ski mask who shot him and watched him fold like a house of cards. It is my fault entirely, all of it. I was coping the best I could and had Ralph cope the same way. In my sleep I saw him. I dreamt of him. I made myself believe that he was not really gone, even in death. Yet, four nights ago, Mark told Ralph adieu--told him that it was time to move on. I wrote those words much more calmly than I expected. The tears were minimal. But now, oh God, now! I don't feel ready to let go. I looked up at the sky as I got out of the car tonight and saw Orion. I instantly thought of Mark--instantly thought that I cannot bear this.

I don't know where I can go from here. I tried to start the Epilogue tonight, but for God's sake, I cannot write about Henry Erikson right now. It was hard enough to write about Ralph, who was at least a somewhat honorable man with the best of intentions. Furthermore, I could still write good things about Mark. Now, I will have to cut all ties to the first two books and deprecate that which I had previously championed. I don't know how to do these things, how to turn evil to good and good to evil. I am not sure I even want to.

Yet, the first thing I have to do is come to terms with what I have written. Mark Adams died two years ago today. He is gone, and nothing can be done.