Every Writer Has An Achilles Heel

 

Action, comedy, dialogue, sex, or violence - which of these do you find the most difficult to write and why?

 

I think of writers as a cross between the court jester and Achilles. The court’s entertainer regales the court, and he has full immunity. No topic is denied. The Greek hero is a fearless warrior, invulnerable, except for his heel because his mother had not covered it when she dipped her infant son into the waters of the river Styx.

 

Writers, like the joker, juggle and balance a variety of elements of storytelling, aware that all eyes are on their techniques and performance. Writers, like Achilles, can wage war against social issues.

 

Action. I do write action, but I keep it to a minimum. I’ve met Lee Child, and he’s a pleasant man, and very tall, but I could never write his Jack Reacher. I read Jack, and wonder how many times a human being can get punched in the head and, like the Timex watch, keep on ticking. As a nurse in my former life, I can tell you most men are wusses. There’s a world of difference between a splinter and passing a twelve-pound bowling ball called a baby.

 

My characters prefer to think their way out of a situation. Physical confrontation is the last resort. As for adrenaline and Mission Impossible scenes, I can’t write car chases because I can’t drive stick.  Cue: Author Humiliation Reel.

 

Comedy. Humor dates the fastest of all writing. Think of sitcoms we now view as cringe-worthy because they are homophobic or lack diversity. Go farther back in time, and you’ll see tastes change rapidly for different reasons. The slapstick of Laurel & Hardy or Chaplin once thrived because films lacked sound. Risqué and witty dialog abounded in pre-Code films because they were made against the repressive backdrop of the Hays Code. Context matters.

 

My version of comedy uses the straight man vs. the funny man, but I exploit context and the social mores of the day, as you see here from The Big Lie:

 

“Okay, I’m the man of the house, but set me straight on something here, Tony.”

Armed with flowers, we stood there in the street. “What now? The neighbors are watching us.”

“When we first talked about your niece, you said you needed to ask your mother for permission. Is it because your sister and niece live in her house?”

“That’s half of it.” Tony looked embarrassed, and it was the first time in all the time I’d known him he couldn’t look at me. He took a breath. “She is old-school, meaning she’s particular about who she lets into her house. Emphasis here is her house.”

He looked at me while I did the mental calculations. “This is because I’m Irish?”

“Because you’re Irish.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Anyone else she’s particular about?”

Tony didn’t hesitate. “Take your pick. Blacks. Jews. Where do we start?”

“Question isn’t where we start, Tony. It’s where does it end?”

 

Dialog. Talk reveals character, and it moves the pace and plot. I work hard at dialog because it is like a musical score. Each character’s use of language says something about their personality, education, and view of the world. Here’s an exchange from my short story, “Back in the Day.”

 

“Private show? Connie, I really don’t like these private shows. I know the money is good, but I worry that things’ll get out of hand.” Ray looked down at his two tickets and swept them into one, pocketing them.

 

“Now, your Sis can take care of herself. I took care of you for years and I understand that you’re trying to make up for it, but I’ll be all right. And besides, I have Big Bill.” Connie tilted her feet into a pair of silver heels that made her walk the skyline.

 

“Big Bill is a good man, but these men have money. You know that. You also know that if they get hungry they’ll want to eat.” Ray stood there brotherly.

 

Mae West hips had nothing on Connie when she walked across the room, not that they would affect Ray. “Now, look here, Ray. I’ve got my own mind. You’re right. They have money and they should have manners, too. If any of those Harvard boys get any funny ideas that Big Bill can’t correct himself, I’ll just slap the eyebrows off any one of those overgrown brats. It isn’t Christmas and nobody is going to undo the wrapping unless I say so. Got it?”

 

Sex. Admit it: we all read the dog-eared pages of Jackie Collins and Harold Robbins novels as kids. As Cole Porter sang, “Let’s Do It,” and with experience, we learn some do it well and some remain forever inept. I prefer to imply sex, the way older films did. A door closes, or clothes are picked up the morning after. Sex is often comical and often made more serious than it is.

 

“You think Phillip will open up more?”

“I do. Give it time. But be ready to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yep.” Vera stopped for a sip. Leslie did the same. The coffee was strong. “Phillip is like the winter weather report. You hear all the hype in the forecast. When the storm happens, all you get is a few inches that’ll leave you wondering if it was worth all the publicity.”

 

 

Violence. In real life, violence is brutal, ugly, and it often happens extremely fast. I’ve seen it on the street, and I’ve seen it in the hospital. If and when I write it, I am either matter-of-fact and clinical about it, or I imply it. It’s a dark place I know I can write well but I prefer to leave alone. The world is already an ugly place.

 

Write what you want, and do the best you can.

In your mind, it will never be perfect.

You will always offend someone.

Ow, my heel hurts.