As for characters going to being a squiggle on a page after the writer's death... Maybe. But I think truly exceptional characters will still speak to readers after the writer is no longer around. You can still feel Ahab's madness, groan along with Frodo as he struggles against the ring and marvel at the love induced stupidity of Romeo and Juliet. I think calling them squiggles belittles the ability of writers who manage to create characters that still mean something centuries after their time.
That depends. Once a work is published - and if it becomes truly great - then I agree that the character can become part of our shared cultural heritage. But that wasn't the point I was making. My squiggles point was addresed to Nik, who appeared to be arguing that his characters get on with it and he just records what they are saying, in the manner of a secretary taking dictation. If Nik is killed by a bus tomorrow, his characters will not continue speaking. They die with him. Unless he has created an Ahab, a Darcy, a Tess or a Mitty, his characters cannot exist without him. And even if he has created an Ahab et al and has got those characters out there into the public consciousness, they still cannot have conversations without him. Ahab speaks to us from Melville's prose and from nowhere else, even if he can be copied (Quint in
Jaws being an obvious example).
Boneman and Hopewrites both make very fair points, but I feel it goes a little beyond semantics - which is perhaps why we are having this debate. I think some folk are arguing that once given substance, their characters effectively dictate what happens next in the book. Posters talk of being surprised by the things their characters reveal, which is rather like me being surprised at finding a bottle of half decent claret stashed in my left welly, even though I put it there*.
This goes beyond the imaginative or creative flight than most of us have probably experienced when we are writing and suddenly see a way to do things better than we intended, in that it puts up false barriers in our stories. We start believing that we - or our characters - have created rules or expectations which we must now obey. OK - we express it as a conceit which we all privately know to be untrue, but the conceit itself risks limiting, rather than encouraging, our creativity.
Regards,
Peter
* My pal, Dave Ten Pints, is visiting today and it doesn't do to leave temptation in his path