Why death?

Death is difficult to write about because it could be literally anything, any time, all at once. Death can be beautiful, horrifying, graceful, catastrophic, peaceful, loud, traumatic, natural. The survivors can’t keep a single part of their life away from the effects of death. And we as humans are naturally scared of death because it’s the opposite of the goal, which is survival. Of course, it’s the natural end of our goal. The most normal thing a living being could do is die.

In literature, death can be used as a device for so many different actions and developments. It can either be the main point of focus or an event that occurred to create the plot. Death is the cause of numerous effects, and often the reason a story exists. While I do enjoy a good plot device, that’s not the answer here.

Other life events can change things too, like a new job across the world, or a divorce that rocks someone’s economic stability, or a pregnancy in an unsuspecting person’s life. Why don’t I write about these? Trust me, I’ve tried, and someone always ends up dying (I’m referring specifically to an alternative Orlando Bloom who was not an actor but just some regular guy dating some regular girl—he was shot by a home intruder in a very wealthy neighborhood. I was in 6th grade, cut me some slack).  

Just give me funerals and gravesides and wept-on tissues; give me first holidays alone and uncontrollable grief-fueled outbursts; give me unpalatable funeral luncheons made by the womenfolk of the nearby church who keep forgetting vital ingredients in the deviled eggs.  

It’s going to happen at some point. We are, every single one of us, destined to join the dirt. And there is a story before death, at death, and after. It might be tearful, but it might be beautiful too. Writing about those stories is just part of my own story, I guess.