I’ve written a lot of characters with dead parents. I think many of us do. We have to get them out of the way, after all, so we can expose their kids to mortal peril. I thought I could imagine my characters’ pain fairly well. I’m an empathetic person. I consume a lot of media that explores grief. As it turns out, I didn’t really have a clue.
My father died of a sudden heart attack in October, 2017, at the end of a family vacation. I had just seen him that morning, then had headed to the airport to come back to California. When I landed, I found out in the baggage claim that he had died while I was in the air, barely an hour after I had taken off. He’d collapsed at the hotel, just before my parents were supposed to leave for the airport themselves.
A few months later, when the shock finally wore off enough for me to start working again, I realized that I should probably rework a few scenes in Hexborn in which Shiloh, my main character, talks about the death of her father. Such grief was no longer theoretical to me.
Take a look at this scene from Hexborn and compare the “before loss” version to the “after loss” version. To me, the second one feels more true. Of course, I’d much rather not be in a position to know that.
***
Before:
Shiloh knelt next to Esta in front of the shrine to the Mother in the Temple. She was utterly alone, no ladies-in-waiting to accompany her in her sorrow. Her nose and cheeks glowed bright red from crying, but her eyes were now dry.
“I thought I might find you here,” Shiloh said softly. “I am so sorry for your grief.”
Esta looked at her in surprise. “No one else is,” she declared, her bitterness escaping like steam from a kettle.
“I know. Her death makes things easier for everyone else, and no one will show any regret over her passing for fear of being thought a traitor. But I know what it is to lose a parent, and I am sorry you have to carry this alone, my lady.”
“They poisoned her. I feel it in my bones. The queen’s people, or Hatch’s minions. Only the Gods know who. No one will ever admit it, nor will anyone ever face justice for the act, at least not in this life. I will never be able to speak of it to anyone who matters, not so long as that woman is queen. But I will not forget. I will never forget,” Esta swore.
“When my father was murdered, I lashed out at those who had taken him from me. But it didn’t make me feel any better. It made me feel worse. The only thing that helped at all was time. And prayer.” Shiloh glanced around. “I need to get back before I am missed. I’ll pray for you, my lady.” She rose to leave.
“My priests tell me you are in here twice a day,” Esta told her, halting her departure. “That you are a faithful woman.”
“Yes, my lady, I try to be,” Shiloh confirmed. “I was raised that way.”
Esta nodded. “So was I. But it is no longer in fashion.” She turned her attention back to her prayer beads, and Shiloh took that as a dismissal.
After:
Shiloh knelt next to Esta in front of the shrine to the Mother in the Temple. The king’s daughter was utterly alone, no ladies-in-waiting to accompany her in her sorrow. Her nose and cheeks glowed bright red from crying, but her eyes were now dry.
“I thought I might find you here,” Shiloh said softly. “I am so sorry for your grief.”
Esta looked at her in surprise. “No one else is,” she declared, her bitterness escaping like steam from a kettle.
“I know. Her death makes things easier for everyone else, and no one will show any regret over her passing for fear of being thought a traitor. But I know what it is to lose a parent, and I am sorry you have to carry this alone, my lady.”
“They poisoned her. I feel it in my bones. The queen’s people, or Hatch’s minions. Only the Gods know who. No one will ever admit it, nor will anyone ever face justice for the act, at least not in this life. I will never be able to speak of it to anyone who matters, not so long as that woman is queen. But I will not forget. I will never forget,” Esta swore.
“When my father was murdered, I lashed out at those who had taken him from me. But it didn’t make me feel any better. It made me feel worse,” Shiloh sighed. “I’m not going to lie and tell you that the pain of missing them goes away. You just get used to it, and it dulls to an ache. It’s as though the Gods didn’t make us to suffer entirely without respite. It does help to talk about them.”
Esta snorted. “With whom? I trust no one, not even my confessor.”
“Even if only to the Gods, then,” Shiloh suggested gently. “Everyone says that time helps. And it does, in a way. But I resent it passing. It’s like a river that carries me further and further away from my Da. And to me, it’s like it just happened, but the water just keeps on flowing,” Shiloh concluded, then glanced over her shoulder toward the door. “I need to get back before I am missed. I’ll pray for you, my lady.” She rose to leave.
“My priests tell me you are in here twice a day,” Esta told her, halting her departure. “They say that you are a faithful woman, Unclean or not.”
“Yes, my lady, I try to be,” Shiloh confirmed. “I was raised that way.”
Esta nodded. “So was I. But it is no longer in fashion.” She turned her attention back to her prayer beads, and Shiloh took that as a dismissal.
***
They say that art is therapeutic, and I think that is true. What pain have you poured into your own art? What art has touched you in your damaged places?
You can read more about Shiloh and her trials and tribulations by downloading a sample here. Happy reading!
My father died of a sudden heart attack in October, 2017, at the end of a family vacation. I had just seen him that morning, then had headed to the airport to come back to California. When I landed, I found out in the baggage claim that he had died while I was in the air, barely an hour after I had taken off. He’d collapsed at the hotel, just before my parents were supposed to leave for the airport themselves.
A few months later, when the shock finally wore off enough for me to start working again, I realized that I should probably rework a few scenes in Hexborn in which Shiloh, my main character, talks about the death of her father. Such grief was no longer theoretical to me.
Take a look at this scene from Hexborn and compare the “before loss” version to the “after loss” version. To me, the second one feels more true. Of course, I’d much rather not be in a position to know that.
***
Before:
Shiloh knelt next to Esta in front of the shrine to the Mother in the Temple. She was utterly alone, no ladies-in-waiting to accompany her in her sorrow. Her nose and cheeks glowed bright red from crying, but her eyes were now dry.
“I thought I might find you here,” Shiloh said softly. “I am so sorry for your grief.”
Esta looked at her in surprise. “No one else is,” she declared, her bitterness escaping like steam from a kettle.
“I know. Her death makes things easier for everyone else, and no one will show any regret over her passing for fear of being thought a traitor. But I know what it is to lose a parent, and I am sorry you have to carry this alone, my lady.”
“They poisoned her. I feel it in my bones. The queen’s people, or Hatch’s minions. Only the Gods know who. No one will ever admit it, nor will anyone ever face justice for the act, at least not in this life. I will never be able to speak of it to anyone who matters, not so long as that woman is queen. But I will not forget. I will never forget,” Esta swore.
“When my father was murdered, I lashed out at those who had taken him from me. But it didn’t make me feel any better. It made me feel worse. The only thing that helped at all was time. And prayer.” Shiloh glanced around. “I need to get back before I am missed. I’ll pray for you, my lady.” She rose to leave.
“My priests tell me you are in here twice a day,” Esta told her, halting her departure. “That you are a faithful woman.”
“Yes, my lady, I try to be,” Shiloh confirmed. “I was raised that way.”
Esta nodded. “So was I. But it is no longer in fashion.” She turned her attention back to her prayer beads, and Shiloh took that as a dismissal.
After:
Shiloh knelt next to Esta in front of the shrine to the Mother in the Temple. The king’s daughter was utterly alone, no ladies-in-waiting to accompany her in her sorrow. Her nose and cheeks glowed bright red from crying, but her eyes were now dry.
“I thought I might find you here,” Shiloh said softly. “I am so sorry for your grief.”
Esta looked at her in surprise. “No one else is,” she declared, her bitterness escaping like steam from a kettle.
“I know. Her death makes things easier for everyone else, and no one will show any regret over her passing for fear of being thought a traitor. But I know what it is to lose a parent, and I am sorry you have to carry this alone, my lady.”
“They poisoned her. I feel it in my bones. The queen’s people, or Hatch’s minions. Only the Gods know who. No one will ever admit it, nor will anyone ever face justice for the act, at least not in this life. I will never be able to speak of it to anyone who matters, not so long as that woman is queen. But I will not forget. I will never forget,” Esta swore.
“When my father was murdered, I lashed out at those who had taken him from me. But it didn’t make me feel any better. It made me feel worse,” Shiloh sighed. “I’m not going to lie and tell you that the pain of missing them goes away. You just get used to it, and it dulls to an ache. It’s as though the Gods didn’t make us to suffer entirely without respite. It does help to talk about them.”
Esta snorted. “With whom? I trust no one, not even my confessor.”
“Even if only to the Gods, then,” Shiloh suggested gently. “Everyone says that time helps. And it does, in a way. But I resent it passing. It’s like a river that carries me further and further away from my Da. And to me, it’s like it just happened, but the water just keeps on flowing,” Shiloh concluded, then glanced over her shoulder toward the door. “I need to get back before I am missed. I’ll pray for you, my lady.” She rose to leave.
“My priests tell me you are in here twice a day,” Esta told her, halting her departure. “They say that you are a faithful woman, Unclean or not.”
“Yes, my lady, I try to be,” Shiloh confirmed. “I was raised that way.”
Esta nodded. “So was I. But it is no longer in fashion.” She turned her attention back to her prayer beads, and Shiloh took that as a dismissal.
***
They say that art is therapeutic, and I think that is true. What pain have you poured into your own art? What art has touched you in your damaged places?
You can read more about Shiloh and her trials and tribulations by downloading a sample here. Happy reading!
