For awhile now, in an effort to entertain myself, and continue to be able to pretend I am a "writer", I have been posting supper short short micro stories on my books of face. Because I am lazy, some time ago I decided to pick a single name to always use for my male and female protagonists. As an unintended side effect most people assumed that I was writing an ongoing narrative. Some sort of story in stages. That wasn't the case, but I decided not to disabuse anybody of that notion.
A few weeks ago I found myself thinking of my male protagonist as though he was, you know, a real person. Thinking about where he was going. So it was I found myself talking to a friend of mine over drinks who happens to be one of the few who followed my scribblings and found myself telling her that I thought it was time my male protagonist got himself a drug problem.
"Maybe," I mused "It's time to kill him off."
"You totally should," She said. "It would fit in with the overall dark story you have been telling."
With that I knew it was time for Malcolm to die. I quickly decided that it was going to be suicide and on Wednesday began laying the ground work. By Friday he would be gone. I was surprised to find that I was kind of excited by his imminent death. It felt like the right, though oddly sad thing to do. Friday morning I was at work, writing the final scene in my head when I realized I couldn't do suicide. The reasons are complex and not for this blog, but I found I had painted myself into a corner. I won't lie. I panicked.
There was only one thing to do. Go to a bar after work and drink my way to an answer. Whiskey, thankfully, brought inspiration. As I began to write Malcolm's demise I began to feel bad for him. His time had come, and yet I wondered if there was an out. Maybe he could find salvation at the last moment? I was writing out the scene where he had been struck by a car before I knew it and realized that was that.
Malcolm was a good guy who just got a bad lot in life. I'm gonna miss him.
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