He came through the door with a smile and a sarcastic comment that set me laughing. I watched my characters fall in love with him. I watched him change their world.
Less than a week later, he was dead.
I was at my laptop, locked into the intensity of battle, focused on the story’s goal. I never expected him to be a casualty of that goal. He disappeared from the page in a wisp of smoke and ink, dissolved between my fingers like the figment of imagination he was.
Except. . .he was so much more.
He had become part of me, and with everything in me I wanted to bring him back. Sick at heart, I attempted to rewrite the scene, tried to find some way of bringing him back to life, but the scene refused to adjust.
One of the hardest thing about being a writer is —let’s be…
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