Let’s forget about the gut wrenching part of ending the existences of fictional people. Whether it’s a character to whom you’ve grown attached or one that you despise, once you get down to the business of plotting his or her demise, things get pretty interesting. I dare say… fun?

One of the biggest challenges to a Spec-Fic or Horror writer is making death fascinating. The macabre needs not be senseless or excessively bloody to grab the reader’s attention. Even gore can be disappointing or overdone if not handled with finesse.

I won’t dispute that immolation, evisceration or decapitation makes for a far more intriguing turn of events than say… someone dying in their sleep. I can’t even remember the last time I read about a good, old-fashioned poisoning.

There’s a lot to be said for not taking this sort of thing too seriously.  With that in mind, here are a few tidbits to bear in mind while you plot fictional homicide.

The following list is filed under; Things to remember, the next time I find myself inexplicably contemplating any of the following:

Can someone actually die, from getting kicked in the teeth?
Yes. If the thing kicking him is an elephant. Or a pterodactyl.

What should I do if while plotting a death by disemboweling, the victim’s voice keeps going round and around in my head, whining…
“Oh no! not my entrails! I need those!”
Ignore him.

What should I do when dead characters send their plot bunnies back to haunt me?
When faced with zombie characters who aren’t actually supposed to be zombies, my standard response is to curl up in a corner and weep. And aah… lay off the booze for a while.

About the stupid dream that gave me a notion to write this post:

From the tiny tidbit that I can remember, vampires were apparently trying to take over the world and succeeding. They were going about it in a really relentless, zombie-apocalypse sort of way.

This one big brute somehow made his way into my house, whereupon I valiantly attempted to stab him to death with a spatula…

I woke up moments before he became irritated enough to disembowel me with his pinkie-finger.

I suppose that from somewhere in the wool work of my dream, my inner-muse must have been yelling;
“Oh no!  Not your entrails! You need those!”