How long will my
life be? Will I be dead in the next three or four hundred pages? Or will he
forget, or will he make me kill, and then I’ll go to jail and the door will
slam and he’ll write “The End” and I’ll be left in limbo for eternity; a true
immortal. I ought to find that funny, a triumph for me, the character. I win,
you lose. The author dies, but the character, being an idea, can never die. But
it’s not funny. It scares the shit out of me. What if he dies before the book
is finished? Do I just stop in mid-stride, mid-orgasm, mid-scream, and hang
there, freeze-framed until the universe goes cold?
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