I had a lot of fun creating a character for my first story this semester. I remember thinking about his home, his interests, his dislikes, his quirkiness. I enjoyed creating something unique. And it was my creation. I made him.
So, I think, writing a character is like.....
an act of creation.
But what if I needed to write sadness or darkness or death? What if I had to kill my character or watch him die with a few words? A part of me would die with him...even though he is only a character--only words on paper, a fragment of my creativity.
Is it wierd that I feel attached to my writing in this way?
Actually, there is a somewhat recent will Farrell movie where an author is writing a novel but whatever happens to her main character actually happens in real life to a man with the same name. I can't remember what the movie is called, but your post reminds me of it. Also, I remember J.K. Rowling said in an article that she broke down and cried when she killed Sirius Black. Her husband told her not to kill him then, but she knew she had to. And I wanted to slap and hug the character in my last story. It's interesting how attached we get to imaginery characters, especially if we are the ones who create them.
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