What Have You Killed Today?

As a mystery novelist, I tend to be cavalier about murder—most authors are. The typical fiction writer thinks nothing of crafting a scene of mayhem. Death comes easy. Books on writing and writers’ workshops traditionally refer to eliminating unnecessary characters, wonky plot-lines, or even unruly sentences as “killing your darlings.”

As media consumers, we’ve viewed countless hours of homicide. Readers and writers alike are constantly bombarded with murder and the repetition breeds indifference. But what does it mean to actually kill something—not on the page or in a dream, but in this waking life?

I’ll explain.

This month, my new bride and I moved into our forever home only to be greeted by a platoon of wasps. Seeking to discourage the critters, I searched our eaves for the insects’ papier-mâché nests. Armed with a broomstick, I pulverized a handful of nests until I arrived at one perched above our back door. I rammed the broomstick home, intent on destroying what I supposed was wasp habitat.

But I was wrong.

It was a hummingbird nest.

The damage was instantaneous and irreversible. Dislodged by my ill-fated blow, two tiny unhatched eggs slipped from their cradle to shatter on the unforgiving surface of the patio deck. Killing them spawned a physical reaction. I inhaled sharply as a weight seemed to press on my chest. My knees wobbled. I slumped into the nearest patio chair, sniffing as tears welled up.

Murdering wasps had seemed like self-defense—a necessary evil. The wasps were a threat. They were competitors. Killing the unborn hummingbirds was quite another matter.

I laid my weapon aside and wept.

As the morning progressed, the mother often returned to the nest, apparently hoping, with each repetition, that her missing eggs would somehow reappear. The father came too, joining his mate to flutter over the crime scene like avenging Furies, seeking retribution. I remained in my chair, unable to move, longing to turn back time, wanting to erase my impetuous action, to stay my hand, to pull back the broomstick at the last second, to spare the birds.

The lesson is clear. Next time I write a homicide, I’ll remember to give the reader insight into the killer’s emotional state. Deprived of the perpetrator’s emotion, fictional murder seems contrived. To reflect reality, the murderer must feel something; must grieve or gloat. Taking a life has consequences which must be explored. Murder most certainly alters the story arc of the victim, but—to be authentic—it must also change the killer.