Like most people who aren’t psychopaths, I have problems with killing other living creatures. Okay, I manage to ignore these problems when it comes to proteins for meals. And, occasionally, I keep a fish I’ve caught, though I’m increasingly having problems with that (good thing I rarely catch any!). But the sight of roadkill saddens me. I even mourn when trees are cut down. I do support the killing of invasive creatures, such as lionfish and Burmese pythons that wipe out our native species here in Florida, but I feel guilty about it. And don’t even get me started on the real-world horrors of war, murder, and capital punishment. As I grow older and the Grim Reaper creeps closer and closer, I’ve become a real wuss on the topic of death.
So why am I so viciously homicidal in my writing?
Let’s begin with the fact that authors need to torment our characters in order to create a good story. And, of course, a mystery novel usually has at least one murder, and a horror story usually involves some death, because, you know, death is scary.
But how is it that I can write a chapter in which I use authentic emotion and empathy when a character deals with the death of a loved one, and, in the same book, describe in minute detail another character getting his head torn off?
Yes, it’s fiction. It’s not real. But what the hell is wrong with me?
I’m not asking why I’m guilty of using gratuitous violence as a cheap, shallow tool for instilling fear in the reader, instead of attempting a more literary means. I’m not questioning why it’s easy to kill off a disposable, two-dimensional character.
I’m asking, why am I writing about killing at all?
Am I making the world a worse place? Seriously, is some demented person going to be influenced by the mayhem in my books? (I take some solace in the fact that, based on my total sales figures, the number of wannabe monsters who click “Buy” on Amazon will be very minimal.)
Am I contributing to the general desensitizing of killing that is so common today in movies, video games, and other entertainment? Is this entertainment truly harmless, or only steps removed from watching gladiatorial combat in Ancient Rome or attending a lynching in Jim Crow America?
I don’t know. I can’t reach an answer in a mere blog post. But maybe I’m simply doing what humans have always done: exorcise our fear of death by examining it, playing with it, rehearsing it, demystifying it. Trying to come to grips with our mortality. Maybe it’s relatively harmless and kind of therapeutic.
And if I had to choose between writing a novel that’s about navel-gazing and one that has some killing going on, I’ll pick the latter. It’ll be thrilling and cathartic. And as I write this, I hear the footsteps coming up the stairs in my supposedly empty house, the barely suppressed heavy breathing, and the click of a safety shut off.
But at least I can guess what’s going to happen next.