Teardrops for Robbi

"It is easy to write. Just sit in front of your typewriter and bleed."

                                    Ernest Hemingway as quoted by William C. Knott

I have a confession to make.  For the last few weeks, I've been in mourning. No, I haven't lost a family member, a friend, or even a pet. I killed off a character I came to adore.

I've made much ado about being a pantser, but I created this character with my eyes wide open. I knew from the moment I thought her up she would die. I realized she was a device, a means to an end, a transport mechanism for my young adult protagonist to experience the epiphany he needs to reach. It still doesn't make it any easier.

First a bit of background: Robbi Tallmadge is a female CIA employee in my teen spy novel, the third and final in the series. Her name is an amalgam of the names of Robert Townsend and Benjamin Tallmadge, two top Revolutionary War spies in General George Washington's now famous (especially if you're a fan of Brad Meltzer's fiction) group of spies, the Culper Ring. Not that any teen reading the novel would ever make the connection, I just thought, as a history buff, it was a nice touch.

Robbi has a bit of Asperger's Spectrum Disorder. She eschews eye contact, focuses obsessively on getting her job right, lacks social grace, is often painfully blunt, and cannot stand physical contact with others unless it is to engage in the one martial art she's perfected for self-defense. She provides, I hope, a bit of balance, an automaton compared to my emotive, hormone- and angst-ridden teenage protagonists.

Like many characters, she is a study in contrasts. In her quest for perfection, she becomes imperfect in what I hope are some likeable and laughable ways. In her desire to always be right, she miscalculates at a critical juncture in the action. To me, one of her most endearing qualities is that she often infuriates the other characters with her personality quirks. Then she'll offer a gemstone of subterfuge that shows them the depth of her value.

Because the crux of spycraft is blending in, she possesses the duality of having a wealth of knowledge that she cannot herself employ. When she seeks to "disguise" the protagonist by putting him in a wheelchair, he protests, believing the chair will only bring him unwanted stares. Robbi astutely notes in what is perhaps an observation on her own character, "You will find…there's nothing more invisible, nothing at all, than a handicapped person."

As important as Robbi is, she couldn't carry an entire book as a protagonist. She's a device, plain and simple. She's spice. No one wants an entire bottle of spice in one sitting.

Perhaps if I hadn't based her physical appearance on someone I know well and admire, I would have had less difficulty processing her death. I doubt it, though.

For weeks I couldn't put another word on the page. I guess I could make a reasoned argument for the worth and importance of investing in one's own artistic creations, but I believe I'd just be deflecting. I created Robbi. I came to love her, quirks and all. She's dead. And I'm still sad.