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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