Really. I'm sorry my sister died. I'm sorry my mother and father died. I'm sorry my girlfriend died. I'm sorry my marriage died. I'm sorry my friends died. They were all old, so it's not so bad then, right?
I rewrote them into fun lively characters in a happier world. Many times.
But they still die.
It is seldom a jubilant, long-awaited, and expected death. Even when it is, death is still a surprise. And in fiction, I'm supposed to mitigate that. Let them live unharmed. Recover from illness or disaster.
But I don't. It wouldn't be true.
And I promise you this: There is not one reader who is angrier about it than I. There is not one reader who loathes me for it more than I. There is not one reader who has shed more tears over each death in any of my books or screamed louder in rage at a deaf ocean than I have. Not one person who has been lonelier after than I have been.
And here is the dilemma. I am often told (often = more than once) that the reason a reader likes my stories is because the characters are so real and well developed. Even when they are in absurd situations-like an old man going back to his teenage body and collecting a vast harem-the characters become real and are loved. They are three-dimensional. But when they encounter a real-world situation-a situation that develops or reveals character-I've somehow broken faith with my readers. I'm loathed.
So, I think I have two choices going forward if I were to change what I currently do. 1) Write less complex and realistic two-dimensional characters so when one is afflicted, it's not that difficult to deal with. Or 2) write apparently realistic characters who have all the traits people love but don't experience anything that would develop or reveal those traits.
Or quit writing, I guess. Fat chance of that. When the day comes that I am no longer writing and posting stories, you can assume that it's me who died.