I didn't kill him...

he was dead when I got there."  Stephen King said that once, in response to a reader who was dismayed at the death of a favorite character.  For the longest time, I thought that was a cop out.  After all, who is in control of the story if not the writer?  Then, just last week, I did it.  I killed a carousel horse.  It was a bad death, too; ambushed in the middle of the night by giant arachnids, wrapped in silk, guts sucked out.  Granted, I didn't go into that much detail - this is a children's novel after all - but, well, it was implied.  The strange thing was, though I knew from the beginning that one of my characters ran a carousel horse ranch, and have known for quite a while that he would gift my weary travelers with one of said creatures, I really didn't think that it would die.  But, as I got closer and closer to this scene I discovered it was really the only answer.  I put off writing this scene for a long time, even worked on other pursuits to not have to do this, but finally I couldn't put it off any longer.  My travelers had a place to go and as I procrastinated I couldn't help but picture them stuck in place, bored, checking their watches every now and then to see when I might come back.  So, I girded my loins as it were, sharpened my pencil, and killed the poor beast who never hurt anybody.  I'm not going to lie, I cried.  I also understood what King meant when he said what he did.  You know what the worst thing was?  As the character that was one of three that started this adventure in my head FINALLY appeared, flamingo pink wings and deafining roar bursting from one of the spider's capsules, it was absolutely worth it.