I funnel thoughts through the ether and string words together in a unique way to create sentences. The sentences grow up. They become paragraphs. These adolescents become chapters. The chapters evolve with time and die. These are called books. The life cycle of a story. The arc of existence. Anyone can do it.  

I succession plan at work. I get people promoted. I work diligently and effectively. They are with me, learn the ropes and I push them up and on. Their absence leaves a void. But I’ve had time to plan. The succession plan. Who will step in and fill the void? I’m always two or three deep in that plan. I don’t like voids. I stay prepared. I magnanimously tell myself that I don’t hold good people back for my own selfish reasons. If they’re good at the job, losing them will make the job more difficult to me. But I self-preserve. I know who will be my next up-and-comer. It minimalizes the pain of losing a good worker.

Kill your darlings.  Kill your darlings?  Good advice, but you need a succession plan.  I killed my main character on page 34.  It was just enough space to make the reader care about him.  Just enough.  I created a relevant and interesting backstory for him, gave him a sound reason to exist in the story, then BAM!  I killed him.  The shock of it, the unexpected death, leaves a ripple in the book’s life cycle.  But I had a succession plan.  I knew who my next star was going to be.  I set it up while I was plotting to murder my hard worker.  He put in the time, but he had to go.  It was a shame, too.  A lot of hard work went into figuring him out, grooming him, and making him feel like a flesh and blood person.  But now he’s dead.  The supporting actor must step up and own it enough to keep the readers engaged.

One day soon my supporting actor will meet a terrible fate.  Succession planning.  You can’t kill someone, then introduce the new character.  They need to overlap.  

Kill your darlings.  Sure.  Do it.  Great advice.  But have a succession plan.  Happy killing.