A Letter to Authors

Look at that, Mrs Hudson. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?

That's a quote from The Great Game for the Sherlock-illiterate. But that's precisely how my brain feel sometimes. I am so used to the chaos of a story raging inside of my mind, that when it all stops and my entire being is suddenly faced with nothing to do, I find it frustrating.

Right now, I'm figuring out what kind of story to read. It's times like these when the authors aren't writing to me, that I think I should write to them. 

And today, I have finally decided what to write. 

Dear Authors,

Or should I say blood thirsty murderers. Torturers. Horrible traitors. Today I shall speak my mind about something which has been annoying me for the past ten years of my life. Here I am, your loyal reader. I invest my soul into your writing, and what do I get in return? No, seriously. This time I SHALL SPEAK AND YOU WILL LISTEN.

All those nights your books kept me wide awake, staring at the ceiling - wondering. In agony. There I was with the book in my hand, reading on and all of a sudden you decide to kill off someone who I had grown to love. 

...You gave me death, and pain and suffering. 

You are authors, you would know. If you aren't most attached to your creations then who is? Aren't they like children to you? To a person like me, (who spent most of their childhood making friends with books rather than actual people), these people you created were my best friends. I went to Hogwarts with Harry, I walked Middle Earth with Bilbo, and I flew to Never Never Land with Peter. But what could I do when I saw them crumbling apart? I actually felt their pain. Written in ink, but imprinted with blood.

I haven't cried as much for real people, as I have cried for these friends.    

You ruthless bastards. You killed off not one, but many, many of my favorite people and sometimes it happened so suddenly, you left me depressed for days. Not out of sadness, more out of disbelief. How could this man or this woman, who went through so much crap, just die like that? You authors modeled heroes out of dust, to save human lives, to restore faith in the common man. You strive to prove that the weak are not meant to die, but to be protected. Then how can you simply wield a pen and kill them all? This pen truly is a strong weapon, much more dangerous than the sword. It kills swiftly, and it does not need you to move more than a finger to do so. 

And I know some of you overtly rational people will ask me why I choose to bring up such a foolish point. After all, the death of a character is sometimes imminent and necessary for the plots of stories. Besides, they are fictional. But a true storyteller creates characters out of love, and when they die in his magical web of twists and turns, I know he cries. Because, it's a bit like a mother losing her infant. It's a complicated, unconditional kind of attachment.

I've spent too many days lying anguished, hoping the dead come back to life. Why do the good people die? But it's needless to say, whether the writers are mortals or God himself, every time a great man/character dies, we are reminded of how excellence, for the sake of excellence alone, cannot live for long in a world with so many flaws. An Elysian lawn awaits the arrival of the souls of such people, who have done much good, and who need to rest. I believe someday, when I'm near the edge of life, I shall see those friends again. Even if they never existed.  

The truth is, dear authors. You hurt me. You betrayed the trust of my best friends...and you crafted their death. But at the end of the day, you taught me something really important - you taught me to live. In your own way, you taught me to face my fear of death and live on. You showed me a path, where the people I had grown to love were nothing but a reflection in the waters of time. And with a swish of your enchanted pen, you immortalized them.  

You have created characters which are so beautiful, that I wish they would exist in reality. I applaud the authors for giving birth to such wonderful (albeit tragic) creations. It truly is a sacred process. To disintegrate this process, with a few words for death must definitely be hard. 

After all those accusations I just threw at you, you must be wondering where this letter is going now. Well, I'm not content, but I'm not unappreciative either. Now that I've scolded you, I must also share with you a few words of gratitude. 

You weren't just authors to me, you were my mentors. I learnt from you many things no school could teach me. Your words made me build dreams, such awe-inspiring dreams which floated like fireflies on the ceiling every night before I fell asleep. You showed me worlds where the impossible happened, you showed me how the different rose out of darkness to stand out and shine. You paved a way for me to BELIEVE in love and happiness and joy. For every crazy ambition, for every ray of hope, for every healing act of kindness and for every love letter I have written...you were the men and women who inspired me. 

In short, you have made me what I am today. And without you I am nothing. You gave me friends when I was alone...you literally raised me up to walk on stormy seas. You did not teach me to simply hate the evil and love the virtuous. You taught me to recognize and admire a person for their ideals, and their personalities. Perhaps that is why most of my favorite characters have been villains, or conflicted anti-heroes. There is beauty behind scars, and an attractive quality to intelligence that surpasses the plain attitude of a traditional superhero or the cocky humor of a protagonist.

As much as I'm angry at your ill-timed betrayal (you usually kill people when I'm least expecting), I cannot deny that I am thankful to you. Every Enid Blyton, every Hans Christian Andersen...every Oscar Wilde has been a story worth recollecting for the years to come. I shall never forget how your words, the sweet music to my ears, made me fall in love a million times and over with the great romances, the wondrous classics that you wrote. Whether you are authors, or script-writers...or even playwrights, you have shared with me a piece of your soul with every book you've written and for that I'm eternally grateful to you. 

This letter really has taken an emotional turn. See what you did there to me?! You made me start off like a wasp, and now I feel like an absolute saint. So before I end this (with the usual courtesies), you better watch it ! Don't you dare kill someone I like anytime soon! Sigh. With your mind like a devil's workshop, how can I even trust you there. 

Turds.

Much love, and forever waiting for the next book,
A fiercely attached reader and an ardent admirer.