I reached a milestone with my writing yesterday. I had to kill off a character.
He made me so happy when I invented him and every time I proofread, I loved seeing his little face. Regrettably, he not only failed to advance the story, but he complicated it needlessly.
I didn’t kill him so much as I just wiped him out of existence. He was never here, as far as you would ever know. But I know better, and last night at dinner, I was feeling a little guilty about that. This is what Mexico has done to me; I’m the kind of person now who yells at dogs and kills Steve.
Kitty suggested that maybe Steve will crawl off and grow a new tale. This is where I have to tell you, so that you can laugh at that last line, that Steve was a snake with a complex back story. He was kidnaped from his home in Greece by Roman mercenaries and taken to a foreign land where an awful lot of responsibility was placed upon his shoulders. Steve handled his predicament with grace and style, but dammit, none of that is what I’m writing about. At least, not now.
So maybe by telling you about Steve, he isn’t dead. He really does exist – somewhere – and, as is the habit of snakes, will pop up again where we least expect it.
Until then, so long, Steve.