Are writers sadists? Or masochists?

It takes a pretty big commitment to perversion to create a character you adore and then wantonly kill him off.

Deep in your head, deeper in your heart, that stilled voice forgives you. I have been loved, used, abandoned, it says. But I still love you. You have trashed me and thrashed me, you have set me aside–what did I ever do to you?–but I still love you. You made me your pawn, your plaything. But I still love you.

You created the character: That’s the sadism. You are the character: That’s the masochism. What real human love ever deserved to be abused like that? And what love was ever so forgiving?

It’s, at once, one of the best and worst things about being a writer. Caring. And then learning not to.

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