I feel so bad for what I’m doing to poor Emily.
Poison, assault, neglect, bad decisions; these are just some of the laundry list of horrors I’ve already inflicted on poor Emily, the main character of my latest novel.
Stephen King at least once described his writing as creating lovable characters the dumping piles of shit on them. That seems to be the direction I’m taking with my book, but I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this path.
The general idea is that she soldiers on through the trials of life enduring to become a better person. When I first envisioned this I expected her life to be difficult, but I did not intend her to almost die every other chapter, or endure horrendous pain in the others.
I feel like a total creep. Each horror builds to another. Like I’m stuffing a voodoo doll into a meat grinder, soaking it in pepper spray then sewing it back together and sending it on its way with its arms where its legs should be. This poor little girl needs help.
The problem is that the appearance of a knight in shining armor would ruin the whole point of the story. Poor Emily must rescue herself from her tormentor. Unfortunately I am her tormentor and I wield pretty unlimited power over her. Currently I don’t have much hope for her.