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"What thing?" I ask.
"The thing that the astronauts don't have."
Now, eventually I figured out what word she meant, but my first response was "gravity?"
Would you not have been equally puzzled?
"No, no," I reply, "I'm looking at the narrative structures and character traits that make these losses so tangible and more tangible compared to the deaths of other fictional characters."
"But what about real dead people?"
"It's not about them."
It's SO AWKWARD. I'm writing about a thing, that happens. It's not a good thing or a bad thing. It just a thing. And it's not a freakish thing or a terrible thing. It's a very human thing. We tell stories. We feel them. And we commemorate what is absent (and in the case of fiction what has always been absent from us) as best we can. Why can't people be okay with that?
Also, without fail, those people ascribe this to being a uniquely modern "problem." You know, one of those things Internet or television made. And it's not.
By a week from now I'll probably have seen the Mermaid Quay display for myself, and I would be lying to you if I didn't say I'm a little afraid of it -- whether that means being moved by it, or, somehow, feeling nothing despite all the ways I've been walking around with this thing for, what, nine months now?