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Well, I didn’t actually kill someone, obviously.  But I killed off a character I loved dearly, one upon whom I had spent a lot of time lavishing those little details that should (theoretically) flesh them into something very human.  He was probably mentally delayed, at least a little bit.  Or perhaps he would have been better understood as having a learning disability, since he was an excellent artist and a solid storyteller, even if he was illiterate and a slow processor.

I found myself sharing the main character’s frustration and distress when he died.  It was sudden, and I felt that he had not had enough time in his little imaginary world, that he had somehow been cheated of at least a few more months of realizing the talents within himself.

Now his brains are scattered over the factory floor he crossed every days of his adult life.

I almost liked him better than my protagonist.  I wish that I could somehow make a story out of his life before this novel.  Maybe he could solve crimes with a spunky sidekick, like a talking animal.  You think that I’m joking, but if I could get away with it with a shred of legitimacy still attached, I would.