Letting Go
Sterling Mason's final chapter. If you’ve read my blog, you know that I outline most things long before I write them. This was also the case with Sterling Mason. I knew exactly what was going to happen to him. All writers will tell you it hurts (like a knife to the chest) to plan and write the death of a character. I was sad about Sterling, but I’ve coached myself to be tough and muscle through the heartbreak of it. I’ve had to kill off characters in other works I’ve written. It wasn’t my first time. I was fully prepared... until my subconscious intervened. About a week before I was scheduled to reach Sterling’s final scene, I had a dream. I was hanging out in some building somewhere with a bunch of people. The details are a bit hazy. We were preparing for some variety of post-apocalyptic calamity, and BAM! There he was. Sterling Mason, in the flesh, so to speak. I remember thinking about how much taller than me he was. I’m five-foot-eight, and I had to look up at him. As a writer, I envision scenes from the varying heights of my characters, but rarely my own. When he saw me, he came over and gave me a hug in greeting. He was SO nice. Polite, mellow, friendly. He helped with whatever we were preparing for (zombies/aliens/vampiric warewolves?) and that was really it. I woke up the next morning feeling sick to my stomach with guilt. I’d been doing fine before, but this was just cruel. You know how potent dreams can be. I spent the day feeling like Sterling Mason was a real guy, a friend I knew. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. |
I called my best friend for advice. She’s a fantasy/paranormal/horror writer with a love for bitter-sweet Japanese-style endings and a notorious knack for slaying characters without batting an eyelash. “Don’t let him manipulate you,” she half-joked. “He’s just buddying-up so you don't have him killed. You need to do it! It’s important for the story.”
“For the story,” I echoed. I still felt awful about it, and even though we were joking around, personifying a subconscious projection of the character I had to let die was not helping. By the end of the week, I reached the moment, the page, the chapter. Wild Lightning. I gritted my teeth, ignored the pain in my chest, and wrote the scene. A particularly sad song (so over-the-top-epic it's almost comedic in hindsight) began playing on my digital radio station. It was a recipe for disaster. Tears began pouring down my cheeks. I finished up the chapter huddled over my laptop, sniffling and wiping my face like a crazy person. There is actually still a note attached to my first draft manuscript that reads, "I totally cried while writing this. T.T Goodbye, Sterling. <3"
I know a lot of people were really sad about losing this character, and I hope you believe me when I say, so was I.
The song that popped onto my radio as I was writing is called Hallelujah, by Constance Demby.
“For the story,” I echoed. I still felt awful about it, and even though we were joking around, personifying a subconscious projection of the character I had to let die was not helping. By the end of the week, I reached the moment, the page, the chapter. Wild Lightning. I gritted my teeth, ignored the pain in my chest, and wrote the scene. A particularly sad song (so over-the-top-epic it's almost comedic in hindsight) began playing on my digital radio station. It was a recipe for disaster. Tears began pouring down my cheeks. I finished up the chapter huddled over my laptop, sniffling and wiping my face like a crazy person. There is actually still a note attached to my first draft manuscript that reads, "I totally cried while writing this. T.T Goodbye, Sterling. <3"
I know a lot of people were really sad about losing this character, and I hope you believe me when I say, so was I.
The song that popped onto my radio as I was writing is called Hallelujah, by Constance Demby.
How could I listen to this song and NOT want to crumble up and cry? Impossible!
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