What I Learned at the Shooting Range

Yesterday I was writing a tense action scene that I can't give away, except to say it involved a shotgun.  At least I thought it was a shotgun.  Might have been single barrel, might have been double.  Obviously something to research.  But for sure, it was loaded.  Might have been birdshot.  Or buckshot.  Or...what else do they shoot?  And now that I think about it, which packs the biggest punch, and which might give the biggest kick, and is it enough to throw the shooter off balance? 

The easiest answer was to call my daughter who has used a shotgun for target shooting.  She was with her fiance, who knows even more about guns, and tried to help.  As each question got more involved, he finally said, "Why don't you come over and I'll take you to the shooting range?"

Um...okay.

It turned out we couldn't use birdshot at the range, but we could fire all sorts of handguns.  There are no handguns in my current novel.  But sooner or later one of my future characters will pick up a handgun and shoot someone - it's happened in the past.  And I'd have no idea what the gun will feel like or how to load and fire it.  I had to fill in this gaping hole in my knowledge.  So we rented a 9mm Glock, a typical policeman's gun, and 100 rounds of ammunition.  And wow, the things I didn't know!

First, you know that acrid smell of gunpowder that's supposedly evident after shooting a gun?  I never smelled it, not even with other guns being fired in there.  And you know that bang-bang-bang you hear on TV when cops shoot at bad guys?  Not even close to how loud it is, and I had earmuffs on.  And I never saw spent shells flying around on TV, hitting cops in the head like they were hitting me.  And those lady cops who impress their male partners with their shooting skills?  They better have a lighter weight gun, because that Glock 9 kicks like an angry donkey.  Admittedly, I'm not big, but I can swing a sledge hammer without embarrassing myself too badly, so I'm not a total wimp.  But I couldn't squeeze off two fast shots without the second one zinging over the target's head into some theoretical innocent bystander.

So I learned a lot of things that I need to know.  Also, spent bullet casings and shotgun shells on my writing desk give it a nice edgy feel.

Tall, Dark, and Handsome Dog

My neighbor works with a dog and cat rescue organization.  She will go on calls at a moment's notice, and sees things I don't even want to know about.  Most of the neglected and abused animals she sees come from the nearby city of Pontiac, hard hit by the economic bad times.  Ninety-five percent of the dogs are pit bulls, bred to fight.  I neither support nor villify the breed, but I do take a definite stand on the people involved.  I despise them.  I will spare you the few details I've heard, but you should know that unwanted dogs are often disposed of by having their throats slit.  Those are the lucky ones.

Except for the REALLY lucky ones, the ones who cross paths with my neighbor.  They get to see a new world with people who care for them instead of abusing them.

We "babysat" one of her rescues today, a nice looking guy awaiting adoption.  He spent a few hours in our back yard, just one of those handsome strangers who come through town and set every female heart aquiver.  Nikita took one look and suddenly turned into a girl, all coy and flirtatious.  "Oh, please be gentle with me, you big, strong, handsome man."  Gag.

I was so embarrassed for her - not exactly the strong type of woman I write about.  But it was all an act.  When he fell for it, she turned into a feisty little hellcat, with a lot of fake growls and pretend bites.  He was swept off his oversized paws, completely smitten.  Ah, romance.

Living in the First Draft

My characters are busy wrapping up the plot of my latest book, bringing the good guys and bad guys together for the Black Moment, and setting up the emotional conflict so that it looks like there will be no happily ever after just before WHAM, there it is.  It's complex, and occasionally they get it wrong. 

Yesterday they acted out a scene, ending it with an insightful point to ponder.  Blech.  They should have ended it with a load of emotional angst, with undertones of impending danger.  So as the director of this drama, I yelled cut, deleted a couple pages, and made them back up and take their conversation and their wandering hands in a different direction.  Now the good guy is ready to rip the lungs out of the bad guy, while the girl is all torn up over the bad news she hasn't yet delivered to the good guy.  Much better.

And that's when I thought how nice it would be if I could hit delete and re-write a few scenes in my own life.  Like, every day.  Then I could say all those clever things I think of two minutes too late.

If I Die, It Was The Chicken

I'm getting close to writing the end of my fifth book, still untitled.  That deserves a reward.  At least, that's the excuse I stand by for buying fried chicken fingers at the deli this weekend.  I know they're bad for my stubborn cholesterol level, but if I eat cardboard the rest of the day, I should be okay.

In the spirit of healthy eating, I pulled off a large piece of deep-fried coating and offered it to Nikita.  This is the dog who thinks horse manure is the ultimate treat, so naturally I expected her to scarf it down and go wiggly with gratitude.  She cracked her eyelids, sniffed the offering, then turned and faced the other way. 

Crap.  I ate something even my dog wouldn't touch.  This can't be good.

Nikita, the Siberian husky, roughing it in the air conditioned house:

Sixty and Pregnant

Not me!  This lady:

According to the Almightly Internet, she's a Blanding's turtle, about 55-60 years old judging by size.  She might live another ten years or more.  The odds are good as long as she stays away from roads. 

I met her a couple years ago, but posted it now because this is the time of year she came through my yard.  It's also the time of year we commonly have to stop to move turtles out of the road around here.  (Unless they're snapping turtles, in which case I just wish them luck.  Not going near those suckers.)  Turtles in the road are so common in June that I had to research this one.  As suspected, they are most likely females, on their way from one pond to another to lay their eggs.  (Mixing the DNA to avoid inbreeding - nature's smart that way.)  This particular turtle has probably been doing it since she was between 14-20 years old, taking a quarter mile hike to the closest pond to lay her eggs.  No small trip on turtle legs. 

Every year!  A quarter mile each way!  What do you want to bet she's cursing the male turtle who knocked her up every inch of the way?

Writing by Bribery

Writing can be fun.  It's also work, and sometimes I'd rather call in sick.  So I bribe myself with a little reward.  If I get X-number of pages done, I can watch the Tigers baseball game.  You'll just have to trust me that this is far better motivation than an ice cream sundae.

Saturday, for some reason that I'm sure is inadequate and completely unacceptable, the Tigers game was not televised.  I was forced to follow the action with mlb.com's written play-by-play.  On top of that, my family decided that no baseball game meant we should watch a movie.  So I was reduced to sporadic peeks at the laptop to see how the game was going. 

If you're not a fan, baseball can seem like a slow game.  But trust me, things can fall apart fast.  That's why, after not checking for a couple innings, I looked at the game in horror.  And Penny had to check it out for herself, yelling, "They gave up HOW MANY runs?  Let me see those pitching stats!"

Bio

That's for Biography, not Biology.  If you thought of the latter, congratulations on being an academic type, versed in both micro and macro.  If you thought the former, you might be a writer, because that's what they make us put at the back of our books.  (Or else you are job hunting and have been putting down way too much personal info on those resumes.  They really don't care if you love water skiing.)

One part of the bio bugs me in particular - the part where you list your expert experience.  Why?  Because it can sell your book on the spot.  If you pick up a book about mushroom hunting, you want to flip to the back and read that the author has stalked wild mushrooms from swamp to mountain top, eaten them, and never once had his stomach pumped.  A book on flying?  The author damn well better be a pilot.  It matters. 

But for romance novels?    Hmm, well, let's just say that experience aside, THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.  Fellow romance author Roxanne St. Claire said she was tempted to fill out a questionaire asking for her job description with, "I make shit up."  Really, that's all you need - an imagination.  But I've met authors who started out as lawyers and medical doctors, and you'd better believe that goes in their bio, whether it matters to the story or not.  I assume the prospective reader is impressed that her Regency-era romance was written by someone who knows a tort from a tart.  (Ha!  That line made this whole post worth it.)

As you've no doubt figured out, I did not abandon an impressive profession to write romance novels.  Not unless you are an obsessive shopaholic, in which case you can drool over my past work in the misses department at Kohl's, complete with employee discounts.  Oh, yeah, I used 'em, too!  I've also been a medical secretary and partner in a cleaning business.  Unfortunately, no one is going to overheat at reading that.  Even my english degree sounds like a dry afterthought. 

So what to put down for my bio?  Eh, I gave them the dry, boring stuff.  But if I was honest, I'd say the best qualification for making shit up is having the time to do it.  Time when the author's head is not cluttered with the concerns of patients or clients or those edgy bargain shoppers.  If I'm honest, this is my best bio:

Up Close with Remi

Most horses find people in their pasture interesting.  They want to smell whtever is in your hand because it could be a carrot that happens to look like a camera.  If you're in a truck, they have to sniff the truck bed and press their noses against the glass.  Of our three horses, Remi is the most curious.  I was in the pasture taking pictures and he followed me like a dog.  When I stopped to shoot a picture, his nose tickled the back of my neck and sniffed my hair.  I turned around and backed up to take this picture.  He looked away, like, "What?  That wasn't me sniffing your neck."

Spring Peepers

If you're a frog, this is prime real estate, baby.  Stagnant water, rotting vegetation - the perfect place to dine on bugs, romance a few hundred of your fellow frogs, and raise your tadpoles.

Flooded lowlands are common around here; this one is just down the road, a couple of acres of marshy wetland.  Home sweet home for spring peepers.  Forget daffodils and crocuses.  This nighttime chorus is the true sign that spring is here. 

Blogger makes it difficult to embed an audio file, so just play the video and turn on your speakers.

Triple Decker Cats

Warm, sunny days at the cat tree by the front window.  Good view of birds and bunnies right from your bed.  Life is good.  If I get reincarnated, I want to be one of my cats.