There's More than a Fight Going on Here

by your friendly, neighborhood hump-day word-whore...Linda Robertson

Have you ever been in a car wreck? One where you saw the other vehicle coming and could do nothing about it?

I have.

I had two of my boys in the car with me. One of them was four, the other was about ten. I was stopped behind a black jeep waiting for oncoming traffic so it could make a left-hand turn. I glanced up into my rear-view mirror and all I could see was the grill of a truck.

In the next millisecond, so many words shot through my mind. Hold onto something. This is going to be bad. Oh my god. Brace yourself. I can't believe this is happening...my kids have to be okay. All that came out of my mouth was, "Ahhhh!"

Action scenes are like that. SOOO much more mental and visceral than verbal. Think about comic books. You get impact, you get expressions of pain or determination, you get lighting and mood, and you get sound cues. Draw that scene with your paragraphs!

Act. React. Concern for the stakes. Attack. Defend. Strike. Pain. Motivated by the stakes. Rage. Repeat.

Sure, the characters could banter. They could taunt each other. The hero could accentuate each strike with the name of someone he's avenging. That may be your characters, and your scene. But that's not the scene I'm going to share.

This is a scene with two heroes, two villains, and one hostage. And it gets a wee bit gruesome.

“You’re getting out at the corner of the mall, but the car will take me closer to where she’s hiding,” Menessos said. “I will confront her directly. The car waits with me while I try peaceably to get her to return, distracting her while you approach from another direction. You grab Beverley.”

            “Count on it.”

            When the car slowed to make the turn, Goliath exited the car—rolling into the street from a quickly opened and shut door—without it actually stopping. The late hour meant traffic was practically nonexistent. Menessos was counting on Ailo to detect the car arriving and slowing near her.

            All in all, Goliath thought this was a good plan.

            But.

            He wanted more than to rescue the child. If he could slay the shabbubitu {Ailo} and safely remove Beverley from harm, he would.

            Crouched, Goliath hurried in the direction opposite that of the limousine, circling around to enter Mall B by a pedestrian path.

            Malls A, B, and C were large landscaped areas of downtown Cleveland, green oases open to the public. Mall B had the most trees. It also had a medium-height wall to reduce traffic noise from the nearby Shoreway.

            In moments, he could hear Menessos pleading with Ailo to return to the haven. Near a tree, Goliath leaped over the wall and landed silently on the grass inside, keeping his body aligned with the tree trunk.

            As he assessed the situation, he noticed Menessos remained on the far side of the wall. Ailo had her back against some kind of stone monument shaped like a large square about three feet high and ten feet across. There were stone benches on three sides, and a tree on the other. There was considerable open space between her and Goliath’s position.

            He started forward.

            He was fifteen yards away when a dark shadow raced ahead of him on the ground. He dived to the side as a razor-like talon scraped his ear.

            The huge owl screeched and flapped her wings, rising into the sky.

            Goliath hit the ground and started to roll, but saw Ailo come running into the open, shouting, “Take us, Liyliy! Don’t leave! Take us!”

            In her arms, Ailo cradled Beverley, who was mummy-wrapped in gray silk.

            A glance at the sky revealed the large bird had circled around and was lining up for another flying dive. Her outstretched talons were open, ready to grab.

            There’s no fucking way she’s going to pick them both up and fly out of here.

            Lurching onto his feet, Goliath was racing forward before he was fully upright. From the corner of his eye he saw Menessos leap the wall and hit the ground running as well.

            Ailo lifted one arm up, ready for the owl to grasp her. She had her other arm locked tight around Beverley. When she saw the two vampires advancing on her, she stopped dead. A strip of gray fabric fluttered out and wrapped tight around Beverley’s neck. “Stay back or I’ll wring her little neck!” she cried.

            “Ailo, no!” Menessos shouted, stopping.

            Goliath sped up.

            He saw Liyliy, in her owl form, wings tucked, rocketing toward them like a missile.

            Ailo was backpedaling swiftly, holding Beverley up as if she were an offering to a sky god—but Liyliy’s nature was far more demonic. He could see the strip of cloth tightening around the girl’s throat.

            He had only seconds to save Beverley…save her from death or a fate worse than death with the shabbubitu.

            A few more steps and a leap, and he could place himself between the owl and the girl, and hope Menessos could compel—using his ancient connection and mastery over her—Ailo not to strangle her.

            As Goliath planted his foot, ready to propel himself up and into the huge owl’s path—he made a last glance toward Menessos who had his shoulders hunched inward, his arms down. His face was contorted with concentration, but his fingers were arched, and sparks danced from his palms. His lips were moving in a chant Goliath could not hear until Menessos shouted, “Ailo, fly!”

            Goliath had a millisecond to react, to decide if he would change his own plan. Or if Menessos, seeing him in action, would change his.

            Before this night, Menessos had always been the master. He had always expected Goliath to defer to his will and his choices.

            Though so much had changed, Goliath could not cast away his faith in Menessos now.

            The haven master slowed his momentum just as Ailo spun around. Her knees bent awkwardly. Her elbow straightened...

            Beverley fell from Ailo’s arms, landing directly on top of Goliath as Ailo launched herself into the air, soaring over them as she hurled herself up and into Liyliy’s path.

            Liyliy, in her unnaturally large feathered form, was unable, or unwilling, to alter her trajectory as quickly. Her extended talons slammed into Ailo’s body.

            The shrill owl voice filled the night. She beat her wings so hard the braches of nearby trees shuttered in the turbulence. Either the unbalanced, unexpected weight of her sister was too much to carry or she was trying unsuccessfully to hover and not land. She forced her legs back and forth, first pushing then pulling, trying to extricate Ailo from her talons—but her long, hooked claws had plunged all the way through her sister’s body.

            Goliath tore his eyes from the horrific scene to examine Beverley. The silky gray fabric that still swaddled her was surely Ailo’s, but it no longer seemed enchanted. The strip that had wrapped the girl’s throat had slipped off and now lay dormant and unthreatening on the ground.

            Liyliy landed not far away, and drew his attention as she bounced along the ground, trying to resolve her predicament. More than once, her path came too close for comfort. Goliath rolled, placing Beverley behind him, shielding her with his body. He came to his knees and pulled her to him like an infant, then rose to his feet and fled.

            Crouched behind the relative safety of a tree trunk, he watched the owl’s desperate efforts end as Ailo was torn in half.

            The giant owl, screaming miserably, flew into the night sky.

 

 

Okay, if you made it this far...here's the thought on the dialogue in there.

 

First off, you're getting a minimal amount of 'the plan.' Enough so you as the reader can understand what is happening, and form a few expectations about it. Of course, since I've given you that hint about their intentions, it can't work out quite that easy. If they had a slightly more involved plan, and you saw it not working, it would amp up your concern. What will they do now? Hopefully, readers who had read the whole series understood that Menessos and Goliath were not on the best of terms just then, and that Goliath conceding to what he knew of Menessos as the master--a position he had recently been removed from--meant a lot more than you probably picked up from this excerpt. THAT was the point I wanted to make with the rescue scene.

 

In action, dialogue should be minimal. But if there is something more at stake, something to add to the scene so that it goes beyond the "radio announcer's play-by-play" weave that in, too. Your hero and your villain are both fighting FOR something. The POV character shouldn't lose sight of that. *See cartoon image above.

Upping the Tension in a Fight with Dialogue

by @Jeffe Kennedy

I'm a talky kind of gal, at least in fiction. I tend to be quiet in company, unless you get me going on a particular rant. But writing-wise, I love dialogue. The interplay of ideas, witty repartee, teasing, suggestion, learning, knowing - so many wonderful layers to explore in the interactions between people (or creatures). Talking can be a profound kind of intercourse.

Much like sex. Or fighting.

When interviewers ask me for facts no one knows about me - which is always hard to answer, because usually there's a reason it's not public information - I sometimes offer up this relatively little known piece of my history.

I studied martial arts for about fifteen years. Chinese ones - Shaolin Temple Boxing, T'ai Chi, Pakua, Hsing-I, among others.

That's me above, doing a public demo of how to use a common object, in this case an umbrella, to surprise and deflect an attacker - with a nice little snap kick to the jewels to seal the deal.

I drew on this experience to write one of the opening scenes from The Mark of the Tala, where my princess heroine, Andi, is attacked in the wilderness. Because this is more than just a fight, but also the incident that spurs her personal journey and her first encounter with the man who plays a pivotal role, the dialogue between them is as crucial - maybe more so - than the physical fight. I use it here to build tension, much as Andi uses it to stall, trying to think her way out of the situation. The man also uses the conversation, to keep her engaged, to discover exactly who she is and also to sway her judgement.

It's a favorite scene of mine, so I'll paste it in below. It begins when Andi and her horse take a hard fall.

Cheers!

***

            Then Fiona screamed.

            I heard it after we were already falling. I fell with her, tumbling to the grass—not soft, but brutally hard under the bright dressing. Fiona’s great supple weight rolled over me, crushing my breath. Long practice had me kicking free, so her ungainly lunging to right herself left me behind, grateful not to be dragged by my foot as she galloped out of sight.

            My lungs struggled against paralysis, grasping at the bits of air they could drag in. Knife-like pangs shot through my muscles. The image in my head throbbed with stark shock.

A man, standing there with a pack of dogs, in the fold of a wallow. Hounds bigger than wolves. No wonder Fiona had shied and lost her footing.

They would be on me in a moment.

            A man with dogs where they shouldn’t be was never a good thing. As far as I’d gone, I was surely still in Mohraya, where Uorsin owned all hunting rights. And my sword still strapped to the saddle, racing off to nowhere. Only my little dagger remained, in the sheath on my belt. If I survived this, Ursula would kill me.

            The hissing grasses as he strode toward me sent panic through my veins. Gasping, forcing my rib cage to flex, I struggled to my hands and knees.

            “Should you move just yet?” inquired a low voice.

            The air burned like fire. I looked up through the dark tangle of my hair. He stood a short distance away, black leathers, black cloak. Seven wolfhounds ringed him, sitting on their haunches, an avid audience with uncannily blue eyes.

            “I’m fine,” I managed to say evenly, thinking of the times Ursula had knocked me with the flat of her blade and taunted me until I stood. Of course, she hadn’t done that in some time, since it took me so long to get up again. “You startled my horse.”

            And you shouldn’t be on King’s Land.

            I didn’t dare say that, though. Because I shouldn’t be on King’s Land either, unless I came from the royal family, and he didn’t need to know I was Uorsin’s relation.

            “Yes,” the man agreed, dark eyes steady. “Do you need assistance standing?”

            Definitely not. The man shared the lean, hungry, and lethal look of the wolfhounds, even with his careful distance. I wiggled my knees and ankles. They felt okay. Hopefully nothing was so damaged as to make me stagger when I stood. The cold congealing in my stomach told me I couldn’t afford to appear at all weak.

            I stood, slowly, brushing grass off my riding pants as I unfolded, to give myself time to test my weight. Nothing gave way, thank Moranu.

            “I’m fine,” I repeated, returning his assessing stare, deliberately slowing my heaving lungs.

            One of the wolfhounds sniffed the air in my direction, raising its russet ears. It growled softly. A hushed word from the man settled it.

            “Not often one finds a princess unattended in the wilderness,” the man observed, as if commenting on the weather, but his face burned with an unholy, acquisitive light.

            I scoffed. “I wish! I imagine those royal brats have soft lives of silks and candies. No, I’m only hunting rabbits for my family.”

            He took a step toward me, flattening his hand to signal the dogs to stay. I steeled myself not to step back. Predators always became more dangerous when presented with a chase. Two horse lengths between us still gave me room. To do what, I didn’t know. I could never outrun those hounds.

            “Lies don’t become you, Princess.” His gaze drilled into me, evaluating, calculating. “Now, which one are you? Not Ursula the heir, I don’t think. Rumor says she looks more like a man than a woman.”

            “No closer,” I commanded.

            “Or what, Princess Amelia—you’ll scream?” He held out questioning hands to the empty sky, but he stopped closing on me.

            “I’m not Amelia,” I said on reflex. Idiot. I closed my hand over the hilt of my dagger and drew it. “And I was thinking more of using this.”

            He smiled, eyes glittering. A breeze wormed through the meadow, sending a wave through the grasses and lifting a strand of his long black hair, tied in a tail at the nape of his neck. He took another step closer and stopped, watching me to see what I’d do.

            “You’d have to get quite close to me to use that,” he purred. “Are you certain that’s wise?” He flicked long fingers, and the wolfhounds stood to attention, ears and tails high, surging around him in an eager sea.

            “What will happen is that you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine.”

            He took another step. One horse length.

            “Even if I hadn’t recognized Salena’s look about you, I’d have known you for one of Uorsin’s by the way you give orders. I am not, however, one of your subjects.”

            At the sound of my mother’s name, I lost the little breath I’d gained. The name no one spoke. This wasn’t bad. This was catastrophic.

            “Who are you, then?” I gritted out, my thighs tensing. One more step and I’d be within his reach. His looked to be a good six inches longer than mine. I was outmatched in every way. I’d have to get inside and do damage quickly, before he could inflict any on me. “Besides a bully and a trespasser.”

            He raised a defined eyebrow at my words, taking a half step. Barely outside the boundary where I’d have to act, which he had to know. He moved like a warrior and used the pressure to discomfit me. He stared me down, the hounds shifting restlessly behind him. From this close I could see his eyes weren’t black at all, but very dark blue.

            “Is that how you name me?”

            “Care to argue the points?”

            “If you’re not Ursula and not Amelia, then you’re the other one.”

            “Flawless logic.”

            He grinned unexpectedly, a flash of white teeth unsettlingly like his hounds’.

            “What shall I do, then, with this amazing piece of serendipity, Princess Andromeda?”

            “The wise trespasser would let me leave in peace. The foolish bully might find himself gutted like a pig.”

            He shifted, leaning his body a hair closer. I sank into my feet, shifting my weight into my back leg, which gave me a bit of space and made me ready to spring. Big men seldom expected a smaller opponent to jump in close, but it was the only choice for someone like me, who couldn’t afford to stay at the devastating perimeter of a larger opponent’s weapon. I kept my gaze on the center of his chest, where any movement would start.

            “Ah. Or, since I am already judged and condemned, perhaps I’ll trespass just a bit more for my trouble. If this is the opportunity I think it is, we can’t afford to waste it.”

            Don’t think. Watch for the window of opportunity.

            His hand snapped out to grab me—Moranu, he was fast—but I confused him by moving in. Men always try to grab, Ursula’s voice reminded me. It gives you time to strike if you keep your head.

            Using my momentum and holding the knife pointed down in my fist so the power of my shoulder drove it, I sliced the blade across his cheek, whipped the arc around into a circle, and slammed the hilt against his temple. My sleeve tore in his grip as I sprang away, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his face, bright blood sliding through his fingers.

            The dogs ringed him, anxious, forming a suspicious guard. I backed away, reestablishing distance. Careful to test my footing. Don’t you dare trip, or those dogs will be on you in a flash. I’d never be able to fight them off.

            The man was woozy from the blow. Ursula would have knocked him unconscious. His dark eyes found me, blazing.

            “Point to you, Andromeda.”

            “This isn’t a game.” I kept stepping back. My arm stung. “I’m leaving. Keep your dogs to you or I’ll kill them.”

            “Brave words.” He climbed to his feet, unsteady, but intention coiled through him. “But you’ve only made the test easier.”

Blood laced down his cheek and over his throat. Three horse lengths. Where was Fiona? I’d trained her to return to me if I got unseated. If I survived this, I’d have to teach her to come to me even if there were wolfhounds involved.

“Now that I have you, I cannot let you go until I know for sure if you have the mark.”

            I pointed the knife at him. “You do not have me. And you never will.”

            “Ah, lovely Andromeda—I think you’re mistaken in that.” A wry smile twisted the bloodied side of his face. “You surprised me with your little sticker, I’ll admit, but I dare you to come that close to me again.”

            His face darkening, he strode toward me. One pace, two. Too fast.

            I panicked.

I ran.

            Run. Run for the forest.

            The grasses tore at my hips and thighs, whipping my arms with stinging tips. My heart gasped for blood, the cool mountain air searing into me and providing no sustenance. I wasn’t a strong runner, but I prayed to Moranu that the blow and blood loss would be enough to slow him.

            Just let me reach the forest.

            A thundering weight hit my back, throwing me down into the green cave of grass, my body shuddering with the second impact in only a few minutes. I held on to the dagger, though, striking out wildly at the man, who tried to pin me, a howl screaming out of me, something animal, feral.

            He ducked the blade and grabbed my wrist in an iron grip, holding it to the ground. I struggled to get a knee up to his man-jewels, but he pinned me under heavy thighs. With my left hand I stabbed stiff fingers for his eyes. He caught that hand, too, closing strong fingers over mine, crushing them together and pushing my hand down tight against my breast.

            I screamed. Fought.

            To no avail.

            After forever and a few minutes, plus a massive effort of will, I stilled myself. Time to rethink strategy. My thoughts, shattered into pieces, began to fit together again.

            “Finished?” the man pressing me to the ground asked. He sounded grimly amused. Probably feeling triumphant. I could use that.

            I opened the eyes I’d held squinched shut since I fell. His face loomed a hand’s width over mine, the knife cut I’d given him welling blood that smeared down his face and neck, contrasting with those fierce midnight-blue eyes. His black hair had come loose from its tie during the struggle, and now it rained down around us.

            “Let me go,” I whimpered, wriggling against him in what I hoped was an enticing way. It worked in that I managed to reposition a knee to the inside of his thigh. I’d likely get only one chance at that, but even a glancing blow might distract him long enough for me to plant the dagger in one of those blazing blue eyes.

            Like you should have done in the first place.

            His dark lips twisted in that half smile. “Nice. But you don’t play the damsel in distress all that well. And if you go for my balls, I’ll break your wrist.”

            “If you plan to rape me, you’ll have to get them out at some point—I’m sure I can find a way to injure the precious things,” I snapped back.

            He blinked at me, his face curiously still.

            “Rape?” He examined me, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him, his gaze lingering on my lips. “Isn’t that rather prosaic?”

            “I’ve found most men are.”

            “Have you?”

            I didn’t answer. It had sounded good.

            “You mistake me, Andromeda. My plans reach farther than a bit of a tumble in the meadow, enticing as the thought might be. Our current position is simply serendipity.”

            His words chilled me in a way that the prospect of attempted rape hadn’t. Rape I could fight and likely win, if I kept my head.

            “You’ll have a hard time taking me hostage,” I sneered with deliberate contempt, “unless your pack of mutts will help you drag me off to whatever prison you have in mind.”

            The right side of his mouth lifted in a half smile, creasing the blood.

            “It’s true. I hadn’t expected this opportunity and I’m ill prepared. I hadn’t thought that—” He sighed. Amused chagrin crossed his face. “Is it too late to woo you into coming with me willingly?”

            I laughed, the sound harsh as the cawing of a crow.

            “Do I look feebleminded to you?”

            He examined me, considering. “Foolish, perhaps. Certainly overconfident. But no”—he sighed again, as if pressed by a great weight—“not likely to trust me. Yet.”

            “Trust!” I spat. “You’re the feebleminded one.”

            “Look at me, Andromeda,” he commanded, sapphire glints hypnotic in his dark eyes. “I’ve been looking for you. Don’t you recognize anything about me?”

            I couldn’t help but look. The press of his hard body, the searing heat of his skin, the eyes like midnight and twilight wrapped together—they reminded me of something. A wolf howled, lonely, my mind. The ocean surged, swirling blue depths sinking into deepest black.

            Under the waves, deep under the sea

            Sands dissolve the cicatrix of thee.

            Cobalt crabs pluck at deep-frozen lies

            Eating the corpses of what she denies.

            The images, as with the words of the song, ate at me, blurring the edges of who I knew myself to be. Salena. He’d mentioned my mother. What did that mean?

            “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” I whispered. It felt like a lie.

Was that Fiona’s nicker in the background? I seized on that. My horse, my life at Ordnung. That was true. Real.

            “No. But I thought you would know me anyway.”

            “You didn’t recognize me—you thought I was both of my sisters.”

“Did Salena teach you nothing?”

            “My mother died,” I snapped.

            “Believe me, I know. Her death caused a number of problems.”

            “I’m so sorry that the greatest tragedy in my life gave you annoyance.”

            The half smile twisted his lips. “More than you can conceive. I’ll make you a deal. Give me a kiss.”

            I didn’t reply. My dagger hand had gone numb, but a flex of my fingers reassured me I still grasped the hilt.

            “One kiss,” he repeated, “and if you still don’t want to come with me, if nothing happens, I’ll let you go.”

            Seemed like a bad bargain on his part, but I wouldn’t point that out.

            “Fine.”

            “No arguing?”

            I shrugged as best I could. “Whatever gets me closer to freedom. Either you’ll keep your word or you won’t. Either way, I’ve given up nothing of importance. And I seriously doubt your kisses are that spectacular.”

            “No?” he murmured, lowering his head. “We’ll see.”

            Mesmerized, I watched his lips descend to mine. The blood still pulsed, oozing out of the cut, fresh and bright over the dried tracks. Despite his nonchalant words, I felt the tension shimmering through him. This was the moment Ursula had described, when lust clouded their thinking.

            “Blood,” I murmured the moment before he touched me.

            “What?” His voice rumbled through me, soft, gravelly.

            “You have blood on your lips.”

            “I know. That’s the point.” With a certain grim determination, his mouth fastened on mine, though I tried to turn my head at the last moment. A bright flash of pain and I realized he’d bitten my lip.

            “Thrice-damn you!” I tore my mouth away, struggling.

            “Watch,” he ordered, holding me still.

            On his lips, the blood seemed to shimmer, then move of its own accord. A tiny bird formed, darkening from the scarlet of fresh blood to black.

            Then flew away.

            Aghast, enthralled, horrified, I watched it go, an impossible pinprick disappearing against the sky.

            “That’s impossible,” I whispered.

            The man’s joyful and triumphant smile crashed into disappointment at my words. “You really know nothing at all.”

            “Then let me up and you can explain.”

            Resigned, he nodded and moved just enough to loosen the grip on my hand.

            Not my dagger hand, but the one between us that he’d pressed to my bosom. I pushed my fist through his hand, up in a short jab to his larynx. He jerked back, howling, and his blood spattered my face, warm salt on my tongue. I pulled my dagger hand free and plunged the knife into the only target I could reach, his muscular shoulder.

            The knife stuck and I had no time to tug it free. I yanked away. He grabbed my ankle and I stomped down on his wrist with my boot and ran.

            Straight to Fiona, who waited right there, thank Moranu.

            The dogs gave chase and I couldn’t separate their excited barks from the man’s angry howls. I heard him ordering them to stand down, as if they’d understand his words.

            I scrambled onto Fiona, expecting the sharp bite of the hounds at any moment, but they only spun around my horse, sniffing and yipping. I dared to look for the man.

            He knelt in the grass, rage, pain, and blood distorting his fine-boned face, black hair a wild cape around him.

            “This isn’t over between us, Andromeda,” he punched the words at me through his pained throat. “Don’t think for a moment that you’ve escaped me. I am your fate. I have the taste of your blood now. Run now if you’re afraid, but I will come after you. I will always find you. You will be mine.”

            “Never!” I shouted at him.

            “Always.”

            It sounded like a vow.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

By Kerry Schafer 

 Sooner or later in every novel the inevitable "Oh, shit" moment shows up, the one where I cannot avoid the demand to Insert Action Scene Here. I've got nothing whatsoever against a good action scene if somebody else is writing it. At least as long as it doesn't go on for pages in excruciating detail. But writing action scenes? See, that's a problem. I have no personal frame of reference from which to choreograph such adventures. Once, when I was in middle school I sort of got in a fight with another girl. We rolled around in the snow shouting. I don't think anybody even got hit. This is about the extent of my experience with a physical altercation, although I slapped a boy once and one of my girl friends slapped me. I have never held a sword. My experience with knives is limited to a Swiss Army Knife with which I am capable of peeling a willow stick to roast marshmallows over a campfire. I'm a little better with guns, in that I have had the opportunity to shoot them. Not at anybody or anything other than a tin can or a cardboard box, or once, in my adventurous youth, a rotten egg. So when I run up against a character who must engage in offensive, defensive, or evasive maneuvers, my first thought tends to be - really? Must we? Can't we all just get along, avoid the violence, sing a round of Kum Ba Yah and go out for dinner? Obviously that would make for a boring book. Also, for some reason, I delight in creating characters who should know how to do these things, and enjoy fighting. So what then? How to write a fight scene with any degree of realism? I'm not about to go out and get myself beat up to find out what it feels like. Don't have time just now to take a martial arts class, or study fencing. (I am familiar with the other kind of fencing - the one involving post hole digging and wire stretching. Not a lot of need for this in Urban Fantasy, unless the cows are getting zombified). So I must make do. I pay attention to the choreography in movies - and yes, I know it's all probably wrong. But I'm not aiming for total verisimilitude here, just to be close enough to accurate that nobody will fling my book across the room in disgust. I have watched YouTube videos on knife fighting techniques. I've asked writer friends who know things. My eldest stepson is always more than happy to help me choose which gun a particular character should be packing. And the Viking advises on firearms and points out the problems when I get it wrong. If I can get a scene past him, it's probably not going to make anybody twitch. At least not too much.

Action? Sex? What's the Difference?

Right up front, let me say, I've long preferred writing action scenes to sex scenes. Partly, this was due to me having absorbed some remnant of Puritan social conditioning - you know the one: Nice girls don't know anything about sex, much less talk about it? I have no clue where I picked up this nonsense. But the fact remains that to this day, writing gun fights, hand to hand combat, sword fights, explosions and assorted spaceship battle scenes is easier than writing a sex scene.

But it doesn't make sense for one scene to be easier to write than the other because a sex scene IS an action scene.

No. Not that kind of action - well - okay, yes it is *that* kind of action, but you know what I mean. Look. A fight scene arises out of the external conflict of a story, it may be fueled by a character's internal conflict as well, but usually a fight comes when our heroes have been backed into a corner by the bad guy. The action of the scene will either reveal something about the hero(es), the villian or the core external conflict of the story. The fight will probably propel the hero(es) closer to some kind of doomsday confrontation - not just with the bad guy, but also with themselves - this proves they've completed their character arc, learned their lessons and now have the wherewithal to triumph.

A sex scene arises from the internal conflict of a story. The external conflict may provide a sense of urgency, or heighten whatever is driving these two people together, but the sex scene serves the same purpose a fight scene does - driving story arc, character arc and plot. It's another case of proving that the characters have learned enough about themselves that they can risk trusting someone else. It's also likely that these people will emerge from the encounter either shattered or strengthened - which is usually how a fight ends, too.

A good fight scene can utterly disarm your character, leave him or her stripped, defenseless. So can a sex scene. A fight scene can empower a character, girding him or her for the final battle. So can a sex scene. From a staging standpoint, there's no difference at all between how a fight scene and sex scene must be directed - only the anatomical language changes subtly - unless the sex scene is a fight scene. Combat is a contest for physical supremacy. A sex scene (not talking rape here - which is 100% violence, not sex scene) can be as well, and while a story wouldn't likely be a romance at that point, there can be an element of competition to a sex scene - who makes who climax first. 

Regardless, knowing what limb is doing what, where, when, and knowing that all parties have an appropriate number of limbs is the same whether you're writing combat or sex. The differences in emotional content can be huge or subtle - depends entirely on your characters and on the story. But ultimately, there's no much difference between the scene types. They both require the same set of skills.

Just a Flesh Wound

by Allison Pang

Sex and violence are so often intertwined in writing and movies. I'm sure we've all seen the scene where two people survive some horrible battle...and then immediately shag against the wall. Though as KAK pointed out earlier this week, that sort of thing would probably take a stronger stomach than most of us have, depending on the particulars.

For me, I suppose I don't mind reading or writing either sort of scene, as long as there's purpose behind it. I like them of middling and realistic length. (The exceptions being erotica, maybe -where the sex *is* the plot.)

When it comes to action scenes I think it can become a fine line between what's necessary and what becomes excess. (Sort of like those big epic battle moments in Braveheart - one on hand, they're realistically brutal, but there's a certain "It's just a flesh wound" mentality that hits me when I watch them. It's probably not a good thing if I start laughing at the spouts of blood gushing from decapitations.)

In either case, there are a few things that tend to have me skipping pages or rolling my eyes.

1)  I get that they're needed sometimes, but endless descriptions of bivouacs and triangular battle formations, Calvary and caltrops, archers and catapults and Greek fire, etc. It's all very impressive when you're looking at it on a map or via movie, perhaps, but after a while the details all begin to blur together. Most of us aren't schooled in military tactics or the arts of war, so...yeah.



This tends to be my reaction too. Though my husband assures me that tactics and battles may be more of a guy thing. Perhaps this is true. I often wonder if the male/female gaze becomes the issue with writing as to why a book or movie becomes popular.  Particularly with love scenes, for example - I can usually tell if it man has written it, just based on the descriptions and focus on certain body parts. On the reverse side, I know there's also been quite of a bit of discussion on why many men don't read UF/PNR or fantasy novels written by women - and much of that has to do with the female gaze and a certain amount of discomfort on the way men are written and perceived.

(Not saying one is right or wrong and it's a bit outside of the scope of the post, but still interesting to think about.)


2) Hand to hand battles that also become ridiculous. I know in UF in particular, we're a bit conditioned to accept that our characters have preternatural skills - they have greater strength or stamina, special fighting abilities, whatever.  Which is fine, but  even so, nothing pulls me out of a scene faster than something that is glaringly wrong. Incorrect firearms terms, for example. (If you're going to write with guns, make sure you know the details of what the characters are using.)

Also, intricate fight scenes can be fun to watch, but the truth of it is that most fights end up on the ground. You can have all the pretty jumping, spinning crescent kicks you want, but if you don't know how to grapple, you're probably pretty screwed.



And sometimes, the direct path is best. (Rumor has it that this particular scene was ad-libbed because Harrison Ford was suffering from dysentery at the time. He was supposed to do something fancy with the whip, but was rather tired and feeling like crap...so chose something a bit more forward. Frankly, it works better from a character perspective too.)

3) Wounds. Again - I know it's part of the whole fantasy of writing thing, but just...there have to be repercussions. I mean, if I stub my toe hard enough I want to pass out. Am I still running after the bad guy after he shoots my kneecap out? (Again - rules and things, but sometimes I'm just like WTF.)

Like Batman on a Unicorn

Hey folks, our Hump Day Word Whore Linda had a bit of an emergency and won't be posting today. Don't worry - I hear she'll fight her way out of that vampire den eventually. In the meantime, please welcome guest poster Christine d'Abo!

Why hello there! The Word Whores were kind enough to let me snap-kick my way into their action week! That’s right, the coffee queen knows a thing or two about action. A little wine, a few candles. I hone in on my man in a slinky little number, showing off (what little) cleavage, doing my best to entice him into my—

(Jeffe leans in to whisper)

Yes…It’s not…oh…so I have to… get dressed?…OH! Action scenes. Gotcha!

I’m actually a big fan of action scenes. I know several others this week have compared them to sex scenes and how some people tend to like one over the other. For me, I feel they are both critical in giving us a feeling of who our characters are. The way a character handles situations in a physical manner is usually an indicator of their emotional state.

And sex is similar to fighting in so many ways. The grunting. Sweating. Nakedness.

Or is that just me?

The best part of an action scene has to be the emotional cues we get from the characters involved in the action. It’s one thing to fight an opponent with an axe/blade/gun/fists and come out the winner. It’s something completely different when that character is also fighting their inner turmoil. Each step or swing becomes a deeper battle where they must fight off their personal demons, while making sure they don’t die. Lots to handle.

I write both futuristics and contemporary erotic romance. I tend to use action scenes in both, though in very different ways. Futuristics are easier to incorporate in many ways. The fights can be bigger, the emotional stakes for the characters deeper, all while they get to screw in zero-g. It’s good times.

But I find the action sequences in my contemporaries to be more challenging (and in the end) more satisfying to write. They tend to be smaller in duration, the emotional stakes a lot higher. There is more action foreplay, or the taunting that leads a character to take that first punch/pull the trigger/jump out the window. It makes that first action scene almost as sexy as the first sex scene.

A good action scene will leave you questioning not only the physical safety of the characters, but also the emotional security. We need to keep reading to know that everything is going to work out in the end, and with luck, get to see the characters kick some major ass.

A bad action scene will feel like Batman on a unicorn. Pretty damn useless.

Multipublished author Christine d'Abo loves exploring the human condition through a romantic lens. She takes her characters on fantastical journeys that change their hearts and expand their minds. A self-professed sci-fi junkie, Christine can often be found chatting about her favorite shows and movies. When she's not writing, she can be found chasing after her children, dogs or husband.

Christine is published with Carina Press, Ellora's Cave, Samhain Publishing, Cleis Press and Berkley Heat. Please visit her at www.christinedabo.com and come chat with her at Twitter Christine_dAbo.

Aaaaannnnd ACTION!

by KAK 

Judith Beheading Holofernes

by Artimesia Gentileschi

In real life, I'm not a violent person. I don't enjoy watching UFC matches or boxing. It's probably why I'm far from pro-hockey's biggest fan. I always figured school bullies needed to meet up with a Master Sergeant for a year of boot camp.

However...

When it comes to action scenes, I'm past liking them and squarely into the "highly obsessed" camp.  As a reader, I consume every word the author wrote -- for better or worse. Sex scenes, fight scenes, what-just-happened scenes. I don't skip sentences. I don't skim pages. If the author thought the words were important enough to include, then I'm reading every last one of them. This is why, when an author glosses over an action scene, I get annoyed. "He swung the battle ax and beheaded the monster. He turned around and kissed his girl. Together, they headed to the next locked door."

Are you kidding me?

I want to know how the weight of ax threw the hero off balance. How the reverberation of the strike against the monster's scaly hide sent pain from hand to nape. I want him to react to the warm spatter of blood blinding him. Of the ax getting caught in the partly severed neck.  What? No one beheads a monster in one blow. Well, unless the monster is made of cotton candy...then maybe. His girlfriend has either fainted or barfed. There is no kissing. There is no skipping down the hall to the next challenge because there's a big fucking corpse oozing all sorts of ick. When beings die, they shit and piss themselves. How's about that for a romantic moment?

Details, people, details.

I love to write action scenes, battle scenes, fight scenes, whatever you want to call them. I write them in detail because conflict by its very nature changes everyone involved. People get hurt, people hurt others. There should be physical and emotional reaction to that -- from the gals swinging the punches to the bystanders hiding in the trees. If the action scene doesn't provoke change in the characters and their relationships, then what the hell is it doing there hogging up precious word count?  I want the reader to know if and when there is hesitation in either party, but I'll let the reader figure out why.  I want the reader to know the heroine will accept an injury if the move lets her inside her opponent's guard to deliver the fatal blow. Details like that are important statements of the character.

How people fight tells you a lot about them.

What about you, dear reader? Can you recall an action scene that really gave you insight into a character? Share the moment and the story below.

ACTION!

The black keys sit beneath outstretched fingers, white letters mocking in their tiny square borders. Micro muscles pull the phalanges in tiny jerks and spasms of anticipation. Pull, relax, pull, relax, a dance of contraction.
The fingertips gently stroke across the keys in a wave of language. The response is immediate. One tentative word splashed across the white screen. The fingers pull back, waiting for the eyes to catch up.
The mind clicks. Unspoken orders fly through nerves, setting them on fire. The fingers react with flash and fury. Dive forward. Strike. Pull back. Strike again. Pressing harder each time, driving down, trying to push the mocking letters through the other side.
The fingers dance around each other, circling with purpose. Darting in and out, barely missing each other. Words spill out across the screen like blood on ice. Stark and quick, laid out in an ever growing puddle of hot, sticky language. The keys cry out, clacking for mercy, but no mercy will be given. Not this time. Not now. Not until the final word is torn from them and left lying among its fallen brothers.
.
.
.
Okay, that may have been a bit of a gimmick and I'm not going to obsess over that. LOL.
I LOVE action scenes. I love writing them and I love reading them. Hell, I love watching them on tv too. When I am writing the Deacon Chalk series I find that if I go too long in writing without an action scene I start to get antsy. I begin to go back and count to make sure that not too much time has passed without one.
But action can be hard to write. You have to find the rhythm of it, the ebb and the flow that makes it exciting and not a hot mess a reader has to wade through.
But I find that I can tell a lot about the character in how they react to a fight. You never really know how you are going to react to a violent situation until you are put in it. Reading about a character the first time they have to make the choice to fight for something they want is a great way to know them. Action scenes lay the character out to their most basic desires, giving us insight into the things that matter most to them. Do they fight to save others? Are they trying to save their own skin? Are they just being cruel to someone weaker than them? What is the one thing they are willing to not only risk themselves for, but also to hurt someone else for?

It can get deep quickly in an action scene. See, my fingers are willing to hurt the keys in order to get words done. They are merciless in this pursuit, uncaring of how much the keys protest. Their clicking and clacking falls on the deaf ears of my fingers as they continue to pound away.

So what does this say about my fingers?

(Okay, this post officially got weird.)

So, dear reader, do you love action scenes and if so why? Are they just mind candy with all the pretty explosions, or do you look for the depths of the character in them?