“So . . . what did you do this weekend, Daddy?”

“Well, you know what I did?”

“What?”

(leans in close, whispers) “I murdered a guy.”

“What?”

“I murdered someone.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. And you know something else? I’ve been planning it for years. I’ve been working up to it, thinking about it every day and I finally did it. And it felt great.”

(silence, considering) “This is something from your book, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Who died?”

“I killed the bad guy, the villain.”

“How does he die?”

“In a really bad way. In fact, I felt kind of bad for him.”

“Why?”

“It was sad. I felt sorry for him.”

“But he’s the bad guy.”

“Yeah, but that’s part of what made him a good villain — you kind of like him and feel sorry for him, too. But I killed him anyway.”

(pause)

“Murderer.”

(The above conversation took place with my daughter a couple of weeks back, as I was finishing up the first draft. I thought of it earlier this week as I killed off a really nasty witch in the second draft — didn’t feel bad about that one at all, felt just as good as it did when I killed her off in the first draft.)