I, like many authors, am sometimes taken to task for killing off favorite characters. While I’m no George R. R. Martin, my stories (being set in a time of war, and a period of far more medical uncertainty than today) often rack up a body count.
It is well to remember that no matter how happy their endings, my characters (real or imagined) are two hundred years in the grave.
Sometimes, as when I’m researching period art, and I come across a particularly striking portrayal of someone who clearly loves being alive, who lives and smiles on from the canvas, and yet is no more than moldering bones today, this gives me a sharp, even unbearable pang of grief.
It also helps to remind me that we are, all of us, short-lived, mortal, and bound to the same fate that overtakes our characters.
What matters, though, is what they — and we! — do with the days that are granted in this human experience, and in telling their tales, I am helping to extend my characters’ time in the company of the living.
So, rather than mourning the deaths of the characters who people my pages, I encourage you to celebrate their lives, and the fact that through my words, you have had the opportunity to know them and to keep the flame of their memory alive.
As an author, I certainly prefer that to being pelted with rotten fruit, at least.