Barbara Neville's Blog - Posts Tagged "ptsd"
“Good night Hammer. Some of us need sleep…”
Rogue Lightning (Spirit Animal #5) by Barbara Neville
I actually wrote that the other night. I was tired, the kid, Hammer, had more to say. This guy is a fictional character.
The next day, I’m at the Tucson Festival of Books, signing books, schmoozing, whatever that is. I’m going to these fabulous presentations by authors, whose books I have been reading most of my life. One of these well known authors, whose mysteries you’ve probably read. And whose name I have unfortunately lost in the mix. It would have been Anne Hillerman, Margaret Cole, J. A. Jance. Or else one of the Robert B. Parker Heirs: Ace Atkins, Robert Knott or Reed Coleman. In any case, all six, of course, mentioned character. Because their characters are great. Their characters rule there books, awesomely. People in the audience as well as the authors spoke of them as if they were real people we all know and expect to walk in the door and join us. Anne Hillerman pointed that out, too, or was it Margaret Cole?
The thing one or more of them mentioned that I want to talk about here, is a pretty universal fact. Even though we authors are creating the characters and should therefore be able to create their personalities, twitches, habits and, well, everything; it’s not the best way to go.
A character at original formation, short of the author getting out the big stick and beating them with it, will grab the ball and run.
Now me? I’m a liberated parent. I let them.
We’ll take the case of Hammer for my illustration. He made a small, bit part, a mere guest appearance in my fifth book. Just to make a scene more interesting. A war veteran, like most of the characters in my books, but grievously and forever wounded. His bit part was a one off for “Rogue Lightning”. I needed Hammer for a few scenes. Then, a few more scenes.
Okay, the scenes became big. Maybe a couple of chapters, just to move the plot forward. Sure, no problem.
Hammer disagreed.
He grabbed the reins and sunk in his spurs. And, it was fine, I like Hammer. He’s a killer, literally and also a big lovable nineteen year old, pathologically happy kid. Think of that friend you have who is always happy, always says he having, not just a great, but a fabulous day.
That’s Hammer. We have great fun with Hammer all through book five. He’s the perfect character, easy to torture. Plus, he always bounces back with a smile.
Okay, there’s the rub. Book six. Hammer’s back for his farewell lines. It was a good run kid, thanks for the memories.
I start a new chapter. Might be the first chapter. Hammer’s there, tapping on the virtual door, saying, “Hey, I’d be perfect for this scene.”
So, I’m sitting here at the keyboard, thinking; ‘Well, yeah, he would. And he’s funny.’
Uh oh, I like funny, especially smartass humor. He and Annie play well off of each other.
The kid has a smart mouth, a handsome smile. He’s tall, good looking, muscular. He’s, in my head and on paper, irrepressible. And with, all the scene stealing, irascible.
A blatant stealer. Wolf, Spud and Buzz want space too. They’re fun, funny, sexy. Handsome, muscular, tall. They all have their own smart mouths. Quirky humor. They’re all different, have their own strengths and weaknesses.
But Hammer, damn it, there’s something about this kid. Annie mentions it, too. Book eight? Hammer’s still there, stage left, grinning.
I often wonder, is Hammer ruining my books? Should I knock the guy off? I have the power. Maybe. Or is Hammer that one character, the pivotal character that everyone loves? Like Spenser, Jim Chee, Hawk. Especially Hawk.
I’m not biased here. I still love the other guys. Annie has been known to say, “Whichever of the guys I’m with is the one I like best.”
Me too. The guy, whichever one of the four, in the scene is awesome. I often think, if Annie chose one and settled down, which would it be? And that’s the answer, the one I’m writing at the moment. As soon as I switch to another, he seems like the keeper. Could be any of them.
But, Hammer? Book nine is about twenty-two percent done, mostly with Hammer scenes left over from editing book eight. ‘Cause he’s stealing space. Still. Bastard.
Damn it, I may never get rid of the big lovable guy. Not sure I want to.
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I actually wrote that the other night. I was tired, the kid, Hammer, had more to say. This guy is a fictional character.
The next day, I’m at the Tucson Festival of Books, signing books, schmoozing, whatever that is. I’m going to these fabulous presentations by authors, whose books I have been reading most of my life. One of these well known authors, whose mysteries you’ve probably read. And whose name I have unfortunately lost in the mix. It would have been Anne Hillerman, Margaret Cole, J. A. Jance. Or else one of the Robert B. Parker Heirs: Ace Atkins, Robert Knott or Reed Coleman. In any case, all six, of course, mentioned character. Because their characters are great. Their characters rule there books, awesomely. People in the audience as well as the authors spoke of them as if they were real people we all know and expect to walk in the door and join us. Anne Hillerman pointed that out, too, or was it Margaret Cole?
The thing one or more of them mentioned that I want to talk about here, is a pretty universal fact. Even though we authors are creating the characters and should therefore be able to create their personalities, twitches, habits and, well, everything; it’s not the best way to go.
A character at original formation, short of the author getting out the big stick and beating them with it, will grab the ball and run.
Now me? I’m a liberated parent. I let them.
We’ll take the case of Hammer for my illustration. He made a small, bit part, a mere guest appearance in my fifth book. Just to make a scene more interesting. A war veteran, like most of the characters in my books, but grievously and forever wounded. His bit part was a one off for “Rogue Lightning”. I needed Hammer for a few scenes. Then, a few more scenes.
Okay, the scenes became big. Maybe a couple of chapters, just to move the plot forward. Sure, no problem.
Hammer disagreed.
He grabbed the reins and sunk in his spurs. And, it was fine, I like Hammer. He’s a killer, literally and also a big lovable nineteen year old, pathologically happy kid. Think of that friend you have who is always happy, always says he having, not just a great, but a fabulous day.
That’s Hammer. We have great fun with Hammer all through book five. He’s the perfect character, easy to torture. Plus, he always bounces back with a smile.
Okay, there’s the rub. Book six. Hammer’s back for his farewell lines. It was a good run kid, thanks for the memories.
I start a new chapter. Might be the first chapter. Hammer’s there, tapping on the virtual door, saying, “Hey, I’d be perfect for this scene.”
So, I’m sitting here at the keyboard, thinking; ‘Well, yeah, he would. And he’s funny.’
Uh oh, I like funny, especially smartass humor. He and Annie play well off of each other.
The kid has a smart mouth, a handsome smile. He’s tall, good looking, muscular. He’s, in my head and on paper, irrepressible. And with, all the scene stealing, irascible.
A blatant stealer. Wolf, Spud and Buzz want space too. They’re fun, funny, sexy. Handsome, muscular, tall. They all have their own smart mouths. Quirky humor. They’re all different, have their own strengths and weaknesses.
But Hammer, damn it, there’s something about this kid. Annie mentions it, too. Book eight? Hammer’s still there, stage left, grinning.
I often wonder, is Hammer ruining my books? Should I knock the guy off? I have the power. Maybe. Or is Hammer that one character, the pivotal character that everyone loves? Like Spenser, Jim Chee, Hawk. Especially Hawk.
I’m not biased here. I still love the other guys. Annie has been known to say, “Whichever of the guys I’m with is the one I like best.”
Me too. The guy, whichever one of the four, in the scene is awesome. I often think, if Annie chose one and settled down, which would it be? And that’s the answer, the one I’m writing at the moment. As soon as I switch to another, he seems like the keeper. Could be any of them.
But, Hammer? Book nine is about twenty-two percent done, mostly with Hammer scenes left over from editing book eight. ‘Cause he’s stealing space. Still. Bastard.
Damn it, I may never get rid of the big lovable guy. Not sure I want to.
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GIveaway Starts March 25
It really is a western...
Proposed chapter 1 of Book 8 "Broken Warrior":
“What?”
I just sat up. Jolted out of sleep, fast, scared. The blankets are tangled around me. I look around. It’s gone.
There’s someone sitting on the couch, they’re facing the other way, toward a big window. The back of their head seems fuzzy.
“Nightmare, babe?”
He’s looking over his shoulder, across the back of the couch, at me.
“It was a bear,” I say, rubbing my eyes to get rid of the fuzziness of sleep. “He walked over to me, then stood on his hind legs. He put his paws on my shoulders. His paws, the claws were huge.”
“Grizzly,” he says, nodding.
I stop to breathe. It’s still playing in my head. Real. I take a breath.
“Then, he leaned his head in toward me, like he was gonna kiss me, but he had those hairy bear lips. How can you kiss that?”
He chuckles.
I shake my head to get the cobwebs out. It hurts. I pick up the flask and have a jolt, for the pain.
“Anyway,” I say, “as he got close, he opened his mouth. It was huge, like my whole head would fit inside.
“He turned his head and I realized he wasn’t a grizzly. He was covered in scales, they rippled, refracting the light in a million colors. He was a velociraptor.”
“Shit,” he says. “Them again?”
I hold my hands up shoulder width apart, showing how big.
“His head was like this,” I say, “His teeth were huge, like scimitars. I turned my head and saw his dinosaur hands on my shoulders. I looked back and forth. He had three fingers. Three on each hand with huge ivory claws. He leaned closer, all I could see was his gaping mouth and pointy tongue. His huge teeth were closing over my face. And his claws were sinking into my shoulders. Blood was oozing out.”
I stop to catch my breath, scared by the telling of it.
“Then, I woke up.”
“Wow,” he says, standing up. “You need a hug.”
I see his claws and scream.
“It’s okay, babe,” he says. “I’m here.”
He’s walking closer.
“Stay away,” I say.
He looks confused.
“Oh,” he says, raising the claws. “Dro….”
It’s garbled, I don’t understand.
“What?” I’m looking around. I don’t see a way out. “Fuck. It’s me or them.”
“Babe,” he says. “It was just a dream.”
He’s still walking toward me, wild hair floating around his head. He’s huge and naked. His multicolor scales gleam in the light streaming in through the window. His forearms are covered in black feathers.
He reaches out with those claws. I put my hands on the bed under me and shift backwards, as fast as I can. My back hits the headboard. I look to both sides. He’s too close, I can’t escape.
He tilts his head, his iridescent scales rippling with the movement. When he breathes, flames shoot out of his mouth and nose.
He looks down, then up, and says, “Wait, you’re joking, right?”
I open my mouth, but no noise comes out. A silent scream.
“No, babe, it’s okay,” he says, looking down again. Moving his claws behind his back.
But, I know. I already saw them. He’s a shape shifter. Grizzly, dinosaur, man.
I scream and scream again. I pull the covers over my head and curl in a ball. I’m telling myself; stay still, maybe he can only see movement.
I hear his breathing, imagining the fire. I hear him grunt and turn. I hear the noise as he softly pads away.
It gets quiet. I stay there, hidden in the covers. I’m scared for so long, it’s exhausting.
***
I wake up. My bladder is about to burst. I have to leave the comfort of my blanket cave.
I open my eyes and peek out. He’s gone. No bear, no velociraptor. Which was it? Both, only the one, but he was both.
I get up, piss and find my clothes. I shower off the sweat of the dream. The hot water washes it all away. I dry off, wiping my breasts and my long legs, enjoying my lithe body. I check it out in the full length mirror. It looks strong.
I go out into the big room again. The bed is beyond the dark leather couch, against the far wall. The kitchen is closer, tucked into an alcove, with a square dining table between it and the couch. There’s a pool table and a drawing board off to the left.
The view out the big window is of sand and pounding surf. There’s a tide pool with a patient heron, standing stock still, fishing in it.
I sit on the couch and look out. Watching the surf, and wondering. There’s an open book laying on the end table. I feel disoriented. Nothing seems real. Where am I?
“What?”
I just sat up. Jolted out of sleep, fast, scared. The blankets are tangled around me. I look around. It’s gone.
There’s someone sitting on the couch, they’re facing the other way, toward a big window. The back of their head seems fuzzy.
“Nightmare, babe?”
He’s looking over his shoulder, across the back of the couch, at me.
“It was a bear,” I say, rubbing my eyes to get rid of the fuzziness of sleep. “He walked over to me, then stood on his hind legs. He put his paws on my shoulders. His paws, the claws were huge.”
“Grizzly,” he says, nodding.
I stop to breathe. It’s still playing in my head. Real. I take a breath.
“Then, he leaned his head in toward me, like he was gonna kiss me, but he had those hairy bear lips. How can you kiss that?”
He chuckles.
I shake my head to get the cobwebs out. It hurts. I pick up the flask and have a jolt, for the pain.
“Anyway,” I say, “as he got close, he opened his mouth. It was huge, like my whole head would fit inside.
“He turned his head and I realized he wasn’t a grizzly. He was covered in scales, they rippled, refracting the light in a million colors. He was a velociraptor.”
“Shit,” he says. “Them again?”
I hold my hands up shoulder width apart, showing how big.
“His head was like this,” I say, “His teeth were huge, like scimitars. I turned my head and saw his dinosaur hands on my shoulders. I looked back and forth. He had three fingers. Three on each hand with huge ivory claws. He leaned closer, all I could see was his gaping mouth and pointy tongue. His huge teeth were closing over my face. And his claws were sinking into my shoulders. Blood was oozing out.”
I stop to catch my breath, scared by the telling of it.
“Then, I woke up.”
“Wow,” he says, standing up. “You need a hug.”
I see his claws and scream.
“It’s okay, babe,” he says. “I’m here.”
He’s walking closer.
“Stay away,” I say.
He looks confused.
“Oh,” he says, raising the claws. “Dro….”
It’s garbled, I don’t understand.
“What?” I’m looking around. I don’t see a way out. “Fuck. It’s me or them.”
“Babe,” he says. “It was just a dream.”
He’s still walking toward me, wild hair floating around his head. He’s huge and naked. His multicolor scales gleam in the light streaming in through the window. His forearms are covered in black feathers.
He reaches out with those claws. I put my hands on the bed under me and shift backwards, as fast as I can. My back hits the headboard. I look to both sides. He’s too close, I can’t escape.
He tilts his head, his iridescent scales rippling with the movement. When he breathes, flames shoot out of his mouth and nose.
He looks down, then up, and says, “Wait, you’re joking, right?”
I open my mouth, but no noise comes out. A silent scream.
“No, babe, it’s okay,” he says, looking down again. Moving his claws behind his back.
But, I know. I already saw them. He’s a shape shifter. Grizzly, dinosaur, man.
I scream and scream again. I pull the covers over my head and curl in a ball. I’m telling myself; stay still, maybe he can only see movement.
I hear his breathing, imagining the fire. I hear him grunt and turn. I hear the noise as he softly pads away.
It gets quiet. I stay there, hidden in the covers. I’m scared for so long, it’s exhausting.
***
I wake up. My bladder is about to burst. I have to leave the comfort of my blanket cave.
I open my eyes and peek out. He’s gone. No bear, no velociraptor. Which was it? Both, only the one, but he was both.
I get up, piss and find my clothes. I shower off the sweat of the dream. The hot water washes it all away. I dry off, wiping my breasts and my long legs, enjoying my lithe body. I check it out in the full length mirror. It looks strong.
I go out into the big room again. The bed is beyond the dark leather couch, against the far wall. The kitchen is closer, tucked into an alcove, with a square dining table between it and the couch. There’s a pool table and a drawing board off to the left.
The view out the big window is of sand and pounding surf. There’s a tide pool with a patient heron, standing stock still, fishing in it.
I sit on the couch and look out. Watching the surf, and wondering. There’s an open book laying on the end table. I feel disoriented. Nothing seems real. Where am I?
Broken Warrior
The latest book is available now for preorder on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Broken-Warrior-...
It is 99 cents now, will go up to $2.99 or $3.99 on May 5th, when it comes out. All preorders will be 99 cents.
Ebook format only at the moment. Paperback coming soon. I am working in a few last minute inspirations.
The book is now #4 in Hot New Releases, Western Science Fiction, #5 in Travel Adventure Fiction [and , wow, just above a Stone Barrington (Stuart Woods). That won't last.] It's #28 in Women's Adventure. All Hot New Release lists. Anyhow, we'll see if high placement, however transitory, helps sales.
It is 99 cents now, will go up to $2.99 or $3.99 on May 5th, when it comes out. All preorders will be 99 cents.
Ebook format only at the moment. Paperback coming soon. I am working in a few last minute inspirations.
The book is now #4 in Hot New Releases, Western Science Fiction, #5 in Travel Adventure Fiction [and , wow, just above a Stone Barrington (Stuart Woods). That won't last.] It's #28 in Women's Adventure. All Hot New Release lists. Anyhow, we'll see if high placement, however transitory, helps sales.
Dialogue that sings
I like a lot of dialogue in books.When I read the first page of a novel, that is what I look for, snappy dialogue. A born smartass, I look for friends who insult each other with regularity, like Spenser and Hawk (Robert B. Parker/Ace Atkins). Or Stone Barrington and Dino Bacchetti (Stuart Woods). How about Peabody and Emerson (Elizabeth Peters)? Now, there's a dynamic duo. I read those to my kids. And still read the new ones myself. Great works.
There's a difference between the three. Two are written in first person. Amelia Peabody and Spenser show us an engaging world seen through their eyes. Whereas, Stone Barrington, while written from his point of view, is third person. I love all three series, but the first person is me. I like the personal touch that only the "I" can give me. As much as I swallow up every book in the Stone Barrington series, I miss that special first person view.
Another good one is Stephanie Plum and Lula (Janet Evanovich). I love this pair of nutty bounty hunters. Once again, we have Stephanie telling us her story. It's much more personal. Of course, all five (to give Ace Atkins his due, he is the heir to the Spenser novels and doing a bang up job) do a top notch job of all the rest. Which we mustn't forget. Atmosphere, scenery, the five senses. And research, they call it fiction, but a great writer sets their fiction in reality. The tiniest detail can throw a knowledgeable reader off their game. It's an entire world we're creating. I usually get my dialogue first, then go back and fill out the location feel, look, sounds and smells. And, please get your plants right. I was at a winery recently where some out of town tasters were waxing on about the smell of sage in the local wine. Uh oh. Yes we're in a desert here, but not the Great Basin Desert. No sagebrush. The power of suggested misinformation (Desert=Sagebrush) ruled their noses. And, of course, different plant types live at different elevations. Author beware!
There's a difference between the three. Two are written in first person. Amelia Peabody and Spenser show us an engaging world seen through their eyes. Whereas, Stone Barrington, while written from his point of view, is third person. I love all three series, but the first person is me. I like the personal touch that only the "I" can give me. As much as I swallow up every book in the Stone Barrington series, I miss that special first person view.
Another good one is Stephanie Plum and Lula (Janet Evanovich). I love this pair of nutty bounty hunters. Once again, we have Stephanie telling us her story. It's much more personal. Of course, all five (to give Ace Atkins his due, he is the heir to the Spenser novels and doing a bang up job) do a top notch job of all the rest. Which we mustn't forget. Atmosphere, scenery, the five senses. And research, they call it fiction, but a great writer sets their fiction in reality. The tiniest detail can throw a knowledgeable reader off their game. It's an entire world we're creating. I usually get my dialogue first, then go back and fill out the location feel, look, sounds and smells. And, please get your plants right. I was at a winery recently where some out of town tasters were waxing on about the smell of sage in the local wine. Uh oh. Yes we're in a desert here, but not the Great Basin Desert. No sagebrush. The power of suggested misinformation (Desert=Sagebrush) ruled their noses. And, of course, different plant types live at different elevations. Author beware!
