Now that I’ve finished the outline for my first novel, I’ve realized that I hate the main character. Stanley Laroche is a douchebag. Stanley Laroche is an asshole. If Stanley Laroche were an ice cream flavor, he’d be pralines and dick (thanks for that one, Mike Myers!)
But I have to tell Stanley’s story anyway. Even though I hate him, I made him. I owe it to him to let the world know what an absolute scumbag-fuckface-turd he is. To do otherwise would be to abort a ten-year-old.
Sometimes, as a writer, you have to tell a story you don’t like. Sometimes a character is so vile that you have second thoughts about bringing them into the world. Sometimes you question yourself, wondering how you could have created such a monster.
Paging Dr. Frankenstein…
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