≈ ← This is a pinch of salt. Consider it a serving suggestion.
When a writer dies the world is a sadder place. As they place the final strokes and bold flourishes on the manuscript of their lives, as the ink dries and the pen rolls forgotten to a corner of the desk, a little bit of magic leaves the world.
When a writer dies a star goes out. A green leaf falls to the ground. A bird loses its voice. A rainbow fades to grey and the gates of heaven and of hell slam shut with a resounding thud.
Because when writers die they go to a very special place.
Think for example of Thomas Harris, the man who created the insatiable Hannibal Lector. His eternity will look something like this:
The candle flickers in a mischievous breeze. Thomas looks about, slightly confused. The room screams quiet elegance. Soft curtains perfectly draped. Muted tones and reserved statements. It registers. He knows where he is.
The fear is paralysing, but his sense of self-preservation over-rides that. The windows don’t budge. The doors remain closed. Panicked breaths escape. He is too scared to make a sound. Please no, not this. But he must admit it to himself. This is exactly what it is.
Defeated he makes his way back to the table, shoulders rest on elbows, disrupting the silverware. He slumps forward. The white china glares at him. Clean, sterile, unused. The setting does not bode well.
A door squeaks; the little flames dance. Excited.
Cold fear grips Thomas. Silver domes hide his greatest fear. A terror his imagination could never have conjured.
“Thomas, I am so pleased you could join me.”
Thomas raises his head. Disbelief and trepidation do battle. He turns. His head and his elbows swivel, disrupting the smooth tablecloth as he faces his greatest fear. He sees only the cold eyes and the tiny smile.
Hannibal frowns. “Now Thomas really, you know better than that, elbows off please. I can’t abide raw meat on the table.”
Now if this is what happens to poor Thomas, imagine what will happen to Miss E.L. James for all eternity. She will be spending a lot of time on her knees, I am sure. Stephen King too, might have some issues to deal with. And Helen Fielding – how much blue soup can one person really eat?
Which made me think: Which of your characters would you prefer not to spend eternity with?
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