A week ago it happened. It was happily writing along. One character was telling a story about a situation to another character. I thought I knew what happened. I was writing it after all, but then, when the character finished telling the story, he let it slip that not just one, but TWO other characters had died. I had absolutely no idea this was coming; he just spit it out.
I actually teared up as I was writing it, but I couldn’t change it. It had to happen that way even though I didn’t realize it until it actually happened. It worked with every part of the story and added a whole new level of emotional trauma for the main character who had been listening to this depressing saga. While I hate drama and guilt in my life, they’re good for characters to deal with; it just makes everything a little bit, or even a lot, worse which ultimately makes a story more interesting.
When I started this whole process, I thought that maybe one character would die and only if they absolutely had to. I don’t like death . . . at all, but apparently, murder is becoming my forte. Several more of my characters have managed to, well . . . pass on, and I’m not even writing a thriller. Nope. It’s historical fiction, and I’ve learned through research that staying alive in the 1840’s was hard work. In fact, I seriously question if I could have suvived the Oregon Trail and lived to the ripe old age of 42 which I am now. My great-great-great-grandmother survived it with seven children, the smallest of whom was just one, and I have the utmost respect for her and every other woman who managed the trip.
People, especially kids, died frequently on the trail. Wagons ran over small children who fell or jumped from them as they bumped across the land, guns accidently went off, men drowned trying to get their cattle across rivers, cholera and other diseases took people by the thousands, and criminals were hung. I think the worse part of all of this death would be getting back into the wagon and leaving the grave site of a loved one, especially a child, out there in the middle of nowhere.
In almost every diary I’ve read, there is mention of the number of graves sites passed. Many people would count the graves and keep a tally as to how many they saw in a day which I find a little odd. I guess its a testament to not only the way of life, but also how boring the trip would be. I whine if I can’t get a good radio station after twenty minutes of a road trip or if one of my electronic devices runs out of battery, so I can imagine that if I had to walk 2000+ miles over a six month period with no radio, tv, or (God forbid) iphone, I’d probably find whatever thing I could to entertain myself as well.
Apparently all this tragedy I have read about in my research sunk into my brain which decided (without consulting me) that a few more characters had to die to make this story real. Thankfully (or maybe not), my brain is a compost pile which takes all the random facts I discover, heats them up, turns them over, and then refurbishes them as parts of my story. It would just be nice if my brain could prepare me for the tragedy it cooks up when I’m not paying attention. I’d like to have a little time to prepare.