I walked into the kitchen crying and Neil said to me, 'What on earth is wrong?' And I said, 'I've just killed the person.' And he said, 'Well, don't do it then,' and I said, 'Well, it just doesn't work like that.' You're writing children's books, you need to be a ruthless killer. - J K Rowling
When I first read this quote, several years ago, I loved the thought that a writer could be so attached to a character that they would be moved to tears when the character dies. When I learned that the character, in this case, was Sirius Black, I completely sympathised with J K's pain.
When I thought about it more recently, it occurred to me that I've been crying over characters for years, even if I don't kill them off. I've been composing convoluted, dramatic stories in my mind since I was 12 or younger, and I've wept over the tragic lives of countless of these heros and heroines. Just the other night, when I couldn't sleep, I lay awake quietly crying over an argument between two of my characters. That fight won't even be part of the story - if it's ever written, that is.
And this afternoon I wrote my first death scene. Well, my first death scene apart from a story I wrote in Year One, entitled 'My Life', which ended with me walking through the woods and being attacked my wolves.
It's just occurred to me, actually, how appropriate that memory is tonight.
My teacher told the class she'd stick those stories up on the classroom door for everyone to read, but later that night when I was in bed, I thought back to the story and realised how devastating it truly was. I didn't want to die like that! In fact, like most six-year-olds, I didn't want to die at all. I became quite upset.
'Daddy, Vivien's crying,' my younger brother called from our shared bedroom. Daddy came in to investigate. When asked why I was sobbing beneath the sheets, I choked out some broken story about wolves and being eaten, and the worst of it all was that Mrs Bennett was going to stick it up on the door!
My pragmatic and loving father suggested that I should ask the teacher if I could rewrite the ending, and this soothed my despair. I have no idea if I rewrote it or not - most likely not - but the incident stayed with me. And apparently nothing's changed since then - I still write tragedy and then cry over it later.
So I'm a hopeless, weeping writer. Amen, so may it be.
But that memory is also appropriate because of the manner of the death. The character who died tonight wasn't eaten by wolves, but wolves were involved in his demise. And when I wrote it I was broken-hearted. The grief the main character feels, the grief that's in the writing - it's all mine.
It's a fantastic chapter, actually. They struggle through all kinds of hardships, building to this pulse-racing climax - I couldn't stop writing and I was hardly breathing - and then they reach safety. And you think it's all over and you relax. But then the main character realises that her beloved friend and rescuer has given his all and he's dying.
It's such a poignant, lonely death. And there's nothing she can do to save him, so he dies in her arms. Ah, now I'm crying again just thinking about it. He's a beautiful, generous, brave character. No-one could replace him.
As his breathing slowed and his good eye glazed, her tears fell in streams onto his face, and she crooned her love and gratitude for his great sacrifice.
