Hippos in Tanks

At left, the iconic novel by the beats: Kerouac and Burroughs.

Ultimately, the book is about a murder.

I oddly like killing off characters. I put them in the book and then boom - they're dead.

Now, in my youth I killed characters of little utility. In fact, their principal role was fodder for the grinder. I killed without passion. I killed without concern. I just killed them as a matter of happenstance.

Lately, I've been killing characters of potential depth. We might want to know more of them. Sometimes, they're the most likable character in the story and I put them down like so many extra puppies (thanks, Homer for The Iliad).

I believe that my evolution in the unfortunate demise of otherwise meaningful and perfectly good characters is out of a respect for their absence. I want the reader to feel the shortness of breath knowing the mortality of someone they might have wanted to know. I want the reader to feel.

Right now. I feel the wet muzzle of a foxhound.  I need to pet the dog and write.

I know you're writing. I hope you're remembering to pet the dog. At least, let him out.

Release the hounds, I say.