I kill my own characters so I don’t have to kill Myself. It’s a sick habit but I find some satisfaction when I put the noose around my characters necks. They sacrifice themselves unwillingly so I don’t have too. Take my character Camille for example she committed suicide by drowning herself in a tube somewhere in the heart of Paris. She smoked way too much opium and she was in pain and regret with her loss of love to Robert. I miss her and think about her often. I’m often saddened which the “plot” who directs to story; commands her life be sacrificed upon the alter of the authors ego. I wish I wrote badly and I would have had her disappear to some tropical beach somewhere in the Pacific Ocean sipping cocktails and openly smoking her opium pipe. I often tell Myself in the quiet of the night that it’s the readers fault I take my characters life’s. To them I’m sure they see me as some sick Demi-God getting my kicks off of their suffering and torment. Then I blame the publisher who just demands a good story. Ultimately it comes down to little ol me sitting in my room plotting their demises in the most creative ways as possible. By society standards I’m not a bad guy. I pay my bills and follow the laws. Or at least get away with the small petti crimes undetected. I’m not a violent person at all. But, when I enter the vellum doors to my mind a twisted man comes alive. I think If I was in my own stories I would be seen wearing a black vale not showing my face. Whenever there was dismay and violence in their lives; there would be some detective would find some evidence of a man with a black vale lurking about. I would ultimately have to hide under the bed or in a closet when my characters met their end. I at least owe them that? I have the audacity to end their life’s I should at least be have the balls to be there somewhere in the story. Instead of this ethereal form hovering about them in the pages somewhere above them. All writers should ask for forgiveness and maybe the nightmares and regret would end in our lives. Maybe we here on earth are in the same dilemma? The ghost that walk the earth are they the authors and we’re their story? Makes one wonder the control we have over our characters we think we have. We are merely ponds in a bigger game. A game unseen to the naked eye. All the while hoping and praying that our writer that is writing our stories hasn’t decided to knock us off the plot.