Why a writer kills

From where you stand, you’ll fall, into an ocean, an icy freezing ocean of death and despair; she will keep you there, until you’re completely numb, the last shred of hope has left your body, and the last breath of air is about to leave your lungs. Then , just then, she’ll pull you out, and take you to the clouds of happiness and eternal glee. To heights from which all problems seem distant, and life seems blissful.You will look down to the beautiful view. Love the way things are going. She’ll keep you there, let you enjoy the feeling; and just when you’re getting used to it, she’ll give you a small push. From that height, the ocean will hit you like a brick,and you’ll curse her, with every ion of energy in your body, you will hate her for doing it to you; and yet, if you had a chance to do it all over again, you would still go to her.

She sits there, in full knowledge of this fact.

And yet as she finishes her final draft of the novel, it kills her.These characters, mere names in a book for some, are things she has weaved and nurtured. In the recesses of her brain, they are as real as her cat who sits mewing, waiting for its milk. She has molded them, given them names, identities, crafted their virtues and vices.For a writer a character is like a child. And it physically hurts her, knowing that she’s making the reader fall in love with it, only to take it away. To kill it or worse,to show him, that his hero, that one person he idolized was infact an evil man.

Yet, she has to do it. She knows that is why he comes to her. There is enough ‘okay’ in his life. She knows he doesn’t come to her expecting moderation.A man doesn’t read fantasy for ‘normal’.

He thinks he wants to see the grandeur of Minas tirith and the beauty of a thousand elfs, but in truth he wants to see Frodo suffer, so see him get tempted,his friendship shaken, him getting hurt,tried and tested on his journey to Mount doom, and still reaching. He thinks he wants to see the phoenix in all its grandeur, quidditch matches and wizarding duels, but what keeps him hooked, what he remembers, is how a man gave everything for a love that he knew was never his, a young boy lost who his parents, his godfather, his mentor, and endured it. She knows, that even after all those pages she has written, he will remember one thing most prominently – Sirius in book 5, Dumbledore in 6, and in 7 Severus, Fred and Lupin & Nymphodoro.

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La. ~ George R.R Martin

She knows they love the wonder, new worlds, magic and wars, light sabers and spaceships. But she knows they start, and stay , for the journey. And journeys must end. Some earlier than others, some painfully, some happily with their full length. But end they must.

She leads him on the journey. And on the way, she shows him scenes he will remember and cherish forever, imparts wisdom that will forever stay at the back of their head, and ignites a childlike wonder that he so desperately needed.But every once in a while, she will have to put an avalanche, a dragon or a dark lord in his path.

The things he will hate, but things that are needed for the journey.

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