Latest / The Creative Life: Art, Writing, Music & Creative Living / Writing Obituaries for Fictional Characters You Invented Years Ago | The Creative Life
Transcript
- She died on a Tuesday in November, ten years after I first pulled her from the dark. Her name was Elara, and she had never existed. I want you to close your eyes for a second. Not literally, because you’re probably scrolling or drinking coffee, but imagine it. Imagine a room that smells like old paper and dried lavender. In the corner of that room sits a chair that has never been sat in. On that chair rests a person who has never taken a breath. This is where we live, most of us who make things. We are haunted by people who aren’t real. And today, I want to talk about the strange, quiet grief of writing obituaries for them. It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? Writing an obituary for someone who never lived. But if you’ve been creating for a while, you know this isn’t metaphorical. These characters have weight. They have habits. They have the way they hold a teacup, or the specific scar on their left knee, or the joke they tell when they’re nervous. I spent a decade carrying Elara around in my head. She was my companion during long drives, my confidante during lonely winters. She was real to me in a way that felt more tangible than some of the people I actually knew. And then, one day, I stopped writing her story. I didn’t kill her off in the narrative. I just… let go. I moved on to new projects, new voices, new worlds. But Elara stayed there, frozen in time, waiting in the draft folder labeled '2014.' For years, I ignored her. I told myself she was fine. That characters don’t die unless we write them dying. But lately, I’ve been feeling this pull to acknowledge her. To give her a proper ending. Not in the book, but here. In the margin. In the space between what was written and what was left unsaid. Let’s look closer at why this matters. When we create a character, we build them out of our own fears, desires, and memories. We pour parts of ourselves into them so deeply that when we stop using them, it feels like a amputation. It’s not just abandoning a plot device; it’s abandoning a part of your own psyche. Elara held my anger for me in those early drafts. She spoke the words I was too afraid to say to my family. She made choices I would never dare to make. So when I put her away, I wasn’t just closing a file. I was silencing a voice that had become essential to my survival. This is the texture of creative attachment. It’s messy. It’s complicated. We love these fictions. We mourn them when they end, even if the story finished with a happy ending. There is a specific kind of loneliness in realizing that the only person who knows the truth about your fictional friend is you. No one else saw her laugh. No one else heard her cry. She exists entirely within the architecture of your mind. And when you stop visiting that architecture, it begins to crumble. The details fade. The color drains from her eyes. And you’re left with the ghost of a feeling, wondering if you did enough for her. I remember sitting at my desk last week, staring at a blank page. I had promised myself I wouldn’t write about her. That it was unhealthy to dwell on the past. But the itch was there. The need to honor her. To say, 'You were here. You mattered. Even if only to me.' It’s a small act, really. Just words on a screen. But it feels like a ritual. A way of laying down a burden I’ve been carrying for a decade. We often talk about the beginning of a project—the spark, the excitement, the potential. We rarely talk about the end. Especially the kind of end that isn’t a climax, but a quiet cessation. The 'ugly middle,' as I call it, is usually where the work happens. But the aftermath? That’s where the healing happens. Or the lack thereof. When I finally decided to write Elara’s obituary, I didn’t start with facts. I started with sensations. What did her skin feel like? Cool, like stone. What did her voice sound like? Like rain against a windowpane. I wrote these details down, not to preserve her, but to release her. To say goodbye properly. It’s funny how we treat fiction with more reverence than reality sometimes. In life, we rush through goodbyes. We leave things unsaid. We assume there will be another chance. But with a character, there is no other chance. Once you stop writing, they are stuck in amber forever. So I gave her a death. Not a dramatic one. No explosions, no tragic falls. She just… faded. She walked into the woods behind her cottage, sat under an oak tree, and closed her eyes. It felt true to her. She was always a quiet soul, always observing, always waiting. This was her final act of observation. Watching the light change. Listening to the wind. It was peaceful. It was complete. And as I typed the last sentence, I felt a lump in my throat. Not sadness, exactly. More like relief. Like setting down a heavy bag I hadn’t realized I was still carrying. It’s okay to be unfinished. It’s okay to leave characters behind. But it’s also okay to visit them one last time. To acknowledge the debt we owe them for the stories they helped us tell. There’s something tactile about this process. Remember when I used to be a graphic designer? I loved the precision of it. The clean lines, the perfect alignment. But I burned out. I needed something messier. Something that required my hands. So I got a pottery wheel. And I learned that clay remembers everything. Every fingerprint, every tremor in your hand, every hesitation. You can’t hide mistakes in clay. You have to work through them, or they crack the whole piece. Writing obituaries for fictional characters is similar. It’s manual labor of the heart. You have to shape the memory until it holds its form. You have to smooth out the rough edges of regret. You have to press your thumb into the soft earth of your past and leave a mark. It’s not digital. It’s not fleeting. It’s physical. You feel it in your chest. You hear it in your voice. I think this is why so many creators resist letting go. We’re afraid that if we stop making, we disappear. If we stop creating, we lose the parts of ourselves that live in those creations. But here’s the truth: those characters are not separate from you. They are you. They are your hopes, your fears, your dreams given form. When you write an obituary for them, you are writing an obituary for a part of yourself. And that is a sacred thing. It demands respect. It demands time. It demands that we sit with the discomfort of change. Elara taught me that endings are not failures. They are transitions. They are proof that we moved forward. That we grew. That we changed. And if we can honor that transition with grace, we can carry that grace into our next creation. Into our next life. What’s the texture of that? Of holding a memory that has no anchor in the real world? It’s slippery. It’s like trying to catch smoke. You know it’s there, but you can’t grasp it. And yet, it weighs tons. I’ve thought about this a lot since I started thinking about Elara. About all the other characters I’ve carried. The ones I killed quickly. The ones I abandoned mid-journey. The ones who lingered in my dreams for months. Do they all deserve an obituary? Maybe not. But they all deserve acknowledgment. A nod. A whisper. 'I see you. You were part of my journey.' Because they were. They shaped me. They forced me to confront parts of myself I didn’t want to face. They pushed me to write harder, to dig deeper, to be braver. Without them, I might still be hiding in that cabin, afraid to pick up a pen. So here is my invitation to you. Think about your characters. The ones you haven’t spoken to in years. The ones who haunt your margins. Write them a letter. Write them an obituary. Write them a thank-you note. You don’t have to publish it. You don’t have to share it. Just do it for you. Do it to close the loop. Do it to say goodbye properly. It might feel silly at first. It might feel weird. But I promise you, it will feel necessary. And once you do it, you’ll feel lighter. Like you’ve finally put down that heavy bag. Creativity is not just about making new things. It’s about honoring the old ones. It’s about giving them the dignity they deserve. Even if they never drew breath. Even if they never walked the earth. They lived in you. And that counts for something. I used to think solitude was empty. That being alone meant being lonely. But after years of working with clay, of sitting in front of a blank page, I’ve learned that solitude is full. It’s crowded with voices. With memories. With possibilities. And it’s in that crowd that we find our truest selves. When we are alone with our creations, we are alone with our truths. Writing obituaries for fictional characters is an act of profound solitude. It requires you to sit with yourself. To listen to the quiet parts. To admit that you cared. That you grieved. That you loved. These are vulnerable admissions. They expose us. They make us soft. And in a world that prizes hardness, that’s radical. That’s rebellious. That’s beautiful. So don’t be afraid of the quiet. Don’t be afraid of the ghosts. Invite them in. Sit with them. Talk to them. Thank them. Then, when you’re ready, let them go. Not with a slam of the door, but with a gentle closing. A soft exhale. A whispered 'thank you.' Because the magic isn’t in the keeping. It’s in the letting go. It’s in the trust that what you’ve created will continue to live in you, even when you stop writing it. It’s in the belief that you are enough, without the characters. That you are whole, even when you are alone. That you are loved, even by the people who never existed. That’s a powerful thing to believe. That’s a powerful thing to feel. And it’s worth the ache. It’s worth the tears. It’s worth the silence. So go ahead. Write your obituary. Honor your ghost. Give yourself permission to rest. You’ve earned it. Thank you for listening. Thank you for letting me into your space. Be gentle with yourself today. And remember, it’s okay to be unfinished. I’ll see you next time.