A few years ago my best friend’s husband died.
This is real life.
It was awful. Real life awful. Literally freaking awful.
After the funeral we all sat around at the dining room table, drinking too much wine and laughing our asses off.
Not because we were awful people. Because we were so incredibly sad we had no where else to go at that very moment.
We told jokes. Really tasteless disgusting jokes. We mercilessly teased each other, including the widow. We probably resorted to fart noises, anything really to keep us from falling into a bottomless pit of despair. Anything to help my best friend continue to function in the face of horrific loss.
Now, novels are usually not real life, but they do frequently act as a catharsis for readers. If you have done a good job as a writer, your reader will be invested in your characters…
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