Cannon Fodder and the Weight of the World
Thoughts on character death
I have to remind myself that I don’t kill characters. I do this for my own wellbeing- to remind myself that I’m not a monster, a madman playing god behind a keyboard. Characters die. They die because of who they are and the choices they make. But I don’t kill them. I’m not the sword in the shadows, and I am not the hangman.
I’m just the person charged with telling their stories. And if a character dies simply because the author needs them to, then it feels cheap. It is cheap.
I gravitate heavily toward characters for whom death is a constant companion. Some are numb to it after years of evading and doling out death in equal measure. Others fear its finality. Some welcome their ascendance to a higher plain, while there are those who relish death and revel in the power it allows them to lord over others. All are compelling in their own way, yet all are unified by death’s indomitable impact.
If you’ve ever taken a punch, you will likely never forget how it stuns you- whether you’re expecting the blow or not. That sharp pop of pain, the way your head snaps back and you blink hard, wondering if that punch really happened. The dawning realization that, yes, that really fucking happened. Then the need to react. Do you hit back? Run? Shout? Cry? Do you smile and prepare for the next volley? Is your assailant a friend? A stranger? Are they family? Do you love them? Do you still?
It happens in an instant, the strike and the many considerations that follow. But it leaves an impact. Each death on the page should feel like a punch. A real, no holds barred, straight to the jaw, punch. I’ve felt them as a reader more times than I can count.
I’ve been peppered with shots and shown how a protagonist reacts to each of them. I’ve been hit and helped back up again, emboldened by a character’s resilience or lust for revenge. I have been slugged with haymakers so hard they leave me in tears, and when I look up there is no helpful hand. Only a storyteller with their back turned, walking the path and expecting me to follow. There is not guarantee they won’t hit me again. In fact, I should expect it.
The death of a grunt with no name will not have the same impact on the reader as a beloved character or maligned villain. But their deaths still deserve the same reverence- whether in the moment or during a quiet time of respite and reflection. They accumulate, these deaths, so that when the end comes for the characters we have come to love, it is no surprise. It can hurt- it should hurt. But in walking a path so touched by loss, the tone of that loss is consistent.
I consider how each brush with death affects every character, and how that will change the course of their story. It often breaks my heart, but by committing to the honest nature of each character and the depth of their experience, I arrive at a better story.
On the outset, I know not everyone will make it to the end of a given book. Working with a large cast of characters, there are some whose death is a foregone conclusion. Others surprise me as I discover their demise along the way. This is where my lack of firm outlining really kicks my ass. As I write out a scene and inch closer to the point of no return, I’m struck by the weight of the truth. And then, through edits and re-reads and more edits, I’m forced to relive those moments of loss all over again, often delving deeper into what that means for the characters who survive.
I do all this to earn the trust of the reader. To teach them that when I knock them down and offer my hand, they can take it, and trust that I will guide them somewhere new. So when I throw the eventual haymaker I can have faith they will continue to follow along.
Cover: The Phantom Horseman,1870-93 by Sir John Gilbert (d.1897)
Cover photo courtesy of Birmingham Museums Trust