It was recently pointed out to me that I am a serial killer. Not of real people, but of characters. People die in my books, often, and sometimes, rather gruesomely.
I do not look upon this and cringe. It doesn’t dampen my desire to kill off Fiona (which will not happen in Battered Dreams). There are times when characters, even beloved ones, have to die. That’s why Michael died. That’s why more members of the SCTU will die. That’s why when I start my next fantasy series, one of those beloved characters, will be dead.
Death happens. We all stare down the tunnel that is the end of our lives and we all deal with the tragedies that exist when someone we love dies. It is unrealistic to think that every character, in every series, is going to live happily ever after. That’s what fairy tales are for (and even then, not everyone has a happily ever after, look at the stepsisters who disfigure their feet in Cinderella).
So, I embrace my role as a serial killer, even when I know my readers will not approve. It is part of what it means to be an author.