I am. I really am.
This is the second and final novel in my first series. The idea for the series came to me when I was sixteen years old, and I’ll be twenty this year. Accordingly, I’ve known my characters for almost four years of my life. That’s a solid fifth. They seem almost like real people to me, like close friends and confidantes and people I know inside-out. I have four main characters, who each stemmed from a different part of myself and took on more characteristics on their own.
I don’t know what I’ll do without them. I’ve been planning the endgame of this book for over three years, perfecting the character arcs and enjoying their moments of triumph as my own. I find myself asking, “What would this character think of what’s going on right now?” I laugh when I imagine the grumpy one, really hating the peppy activity I’m partaking in. All I can do now is give them a good ending (even though I’m killing one of them), and that’s really hard for me to deal with. This project has been my favorite hobby for so, so long that I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when I type “The End.”
Well, that’s not entirely true. I know I’ll keep writing, and I have a decent idea of what my next book will be. But the world, the genre my current series takes place in is so entirely different than anything I’ve read. There’s nothing I can turn to to remind myself of the world I’m leaving. And I can’t develop that world anymore, either. No one will ever know that Charles had a dog when he was a kid, or that Blanc’s favorite color is scarlet. Except you, I guess. It’s just small things like that. They don’t matter to the story, so they don’t appear. They’re the kinds of things a friend would know about another friend.
I’m going to miss all of them when this is over, even the stuffy Mereux and the creepy little Sanabi. I know I won’t write anything further with them, because their stories will all be told. That’s the weird and depressing thing about being an author. When you finish a book as a reader, you can imagine all of those things about the characters. You can take their stories further in your mind, never knowing what the author intended for them. But when you’re the author, you say everything you need to about your characters. There’s nothing left for you when you’re done.
I know I’ll always miss writing in the world of Carre D’as. I feel it more and more, as I near the final 10-15,000 words of the novel. But I’ll always remember them, too, the characters who got me through high school and boring afternoons and lonely nights. So, to Marie, Ebahir, Blanc, and especially Charles, it’s been fun. Sorry to the one of you I killed, and to the rest of you, I hope you like your endings.
Thanks for being a part of my story.