Let’s get something out in the open: I have no problem killing off characters. None. Zilch. And not just the expendable ones skulking around in the background either, sometimes it’s the ones with fan art, Pinterest boards, and tragic backstories. Sometimes it’s the ones I adore. That doesn’t make me a monster. It makes me a writer who understands that fiction, like life, doesn’t come with a guarantee of safety.
Now, when I say “kill my darlings,” I’m not always talking about character death. Sometimes the casualties are scenes I lovingly sculpted at 2 a.m. with a cup of tea and dramatic background music. Sometimes it’s a line of dialogue that sparkles like polished obsidian, but lands with all the grace of a wet sock when read in context. The phrase, famous and famously misunderstood, means being willing to cut what you love for the sake of what the story needs. And I? I wield my delete key like a scalpel.
That said, yes, sometimes I absolutely kill characters. And no, I don’t always flinch. There’s a strange myth that writers must be emotionally wrecked after offing a character, but the truth is, if the story demands it, I can pull the trigger and then go make a sandwich. The emotional weight of that decision isn’t measured in how many tissues I go through, it’s measured in how deeply it lands for the reader, how it shapes the survivors, how it tilts the axis of the world I’ve built.
If a death doesn’t do something, if it doesn’t shift the power dynamics, break someone’s heart open, or carve a new path forward, then it probably doesn’t belong. Character death isn’t just a tool in the narrative toolbox. It’s a wrecking ball. You don’t swing it unless you’re ready to deal with the fallout. But when you are? Oh, it’s glorious. Because nothing gets a reader to sit up straighter than realizing no one is safe.
And here’s the part some folks don’t like to hear: if you’re too afraid to hurt your characters, you’re probably playing it too safe. Conflict without consequence is just noise. We don’t grow attached to characters because they’re indestructible. We grow attached because they could fall, and we never know when. That tension? That unknown? That’s the heartbeat of good storytelling.
So yes, I kill my darlings. I kill scenes. I kill subplots. I kill characters. And I do it not because I enjoy suffering (though, let’s be honest, there is a twisted glee in making readers feel something deep). I do it because the story deserves to be told with honesty. Sometimes that honesty is messy, painful, and brutal. But it’s real. And that’s what matters.
To the characters who didn’t make it to the last page: thank you for your service. You made it count. You mattered. And to the ones still standing? Watch your back.
xo Ametra
