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Posted by Nina on Dec 15, 2011 in
Christmas,
Holidays,
Writing 
Have you ever woken up the morning after the office Christmas party with a horrible feeling of impending doom….?
In Vodka Veritas
“You’re late!”
Angela jumped, spilling coffee and half-eaten Christmas cookie over the desk. “Thanks,” she muttered.
“Guilty conscience?” Sally asked. She picked up the cookie and took a huge bite. “You know, I really thought that you would make an effort to be on time today.”
“I did. I always do.” It just never seemed to do any good; she was always late. So why should today be any different? Her mind came up blank. “I give up. What’s so special about today?”
“Didn’t you have something important to do this morning?”
“Did I?” A vague sense of unease stirred in the deep, dark recesses of her brain.
Sally regarded her with amazement, then smiled. “You don’t remember do you?”
“Remember what?”
Sally shook her head in mock disbelief. “Can you actually remember anything about Friday night?”
“Of course I can.” The lie rolled uneasily off her tongue. “It was the office Christmas party. I remember everything.”
“Everything?” The skepticism was clear in Sally’s voice.
“Absolutely.”
Sally stared at her for a moment. “You mean, you remember photocopying your bottom?”
“Of course.” Angela shrugged. “Didn’t everyone?”
“Good point.” Sally thought for a moment. “So, you remember telling Martin that he needs a lobotomy?”
Angela almost let out a sigh of relief. So far, not so bad. “Yes. It’s actually something I’ve been meaning to tell him for ages. Perhaps he’ll give it serious consideration. So,” she urged, “carry on then.”
“With what?”
“You know, your list of things that I remember.”
“Ha-ha. I knew it—you don’t remember. I knew you couldn’t, otherwise, you’d be scurrying around in a panic, or sitting under your desk with a bag over your head.” She stood up. “I’m going to let you stew for a while.”
Angela watched her go with a scowl on her face, then switched on her computer and pressed the new mail button.
Dear Everyone,
I just want to apologize to all those I may have offended at the office Christmas party. It was NOT, (as most of you no doubt believe) the effect of too much vodka, but rather the effect of an absolutely gargantuan brain tumor (the approximate size and shape of a football), which spontaneously exploded on Saturday morning. I am now fully recovered, but flowers and chocolates are still welcome (especially chocolates).
Angela
PS Martin – I still think you need a lobotomy.
But who to send it to? Better err on the side of caution, she decided, and selected the whole company. She was just about to press the send button when somebody spoke from just behind her shoulder.
“Angela.”
It was Jack, her boss. Six foot three of tall, dark, and handsome, all wrapped up in a designer suit. At least she could be pretty sure she hadn’t embarrassed herself there. Well, no more than usual anyway. She invariably turned into a tongue-tied moron, incapable of action or speech in his presence. Normally not a cause for celebration, but in this instance a definite improvement over the alternatives.
“Huh?” she mumbled.
He stared down at her for a moment, looked about to say something then obviously changed his mind. “I need last week’s numbers. Now.”
“I sent that email,” she said to Sally some time later, “and absolutely no-one, but no-one has brought me any chocolate. I need chocolate. And another thing, no-one will look me in the eye.”
“Kevin will.”
Angela glanced across the room, to where Kevin sat. He was in fact staring straight at her. When he caught her eye, he smiled and waggled is fingers.
“Not Kevin,” she said. “No way.”
“You want to have his babies.”
“I would never have babies with Kevin. Apart from his more obvious problems, he’s got red hair.”
“So have you.”
“Duh! That’s exactly my point. Red hair is carried on the recessive gene. Two red-haired parents and your children have absolutely no chance. Ginger babies. Even drunk, I would never do that to anyone.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you seriously wanted Kevin’s babies. I think he was just a rehearsal. Like the others.”
The others? And a rehearsal for what? She glanced at Jack’s door, her feeling of unease intensifying. “Beam me up, Scottie,” she muttered under her breath. That gave her an idea, the perfect excuse. She clicked the new mail button again and started typing.
Dear Fellow Human Beings,
I am not going to apologize for my behavior on Friday night, BECAUSE IT WASN’T ME. At some point prior to the party, I was abducted by aliens and my place taken by an alien double. I was released on Saturday, unharmed and this is now me. So I just want to reiterate – I DIDN’T DO IT (whatever “it” was.)
Angela.
PS Kevin—while there may be a totally deluded alien out there who actually wants your babies—I don’t!
But what was really bothering her, was that there had to be something worse. Much worse, if Sally’s level of amusement was anything to go by.
“Sally, why are you doing this? You have to tell me if there’s something I need to prepare for.”
“Well, you did tell our managing director that his ex-wife looks like a horse and he’s better off without her.”
“Valuable advice.”
“And…
Angela stopped listening as her gaze snagged on something across the office. Jack was standing by the elevators, talking with the finance manager. She rested her head on her hand and stared at him.
“Yuk,” Sally said. “You’re drooling again. All over your keyboard. You know, I think it’s probably time for another of those reality checks.”
“But he’s so perfect.” Angela sighed.
“Angela,” Sally said sternly.
“Oh, okay then. Reasons why Jack will never marry Angela: One—Jack only goes out with tall, elegant blondes who ooze sophistication. Angela has red hair, freckles and is only five-foot-one. In addition she has no breasts, no hips, and she dresses entirely from the children’s department in Tesco.”
“Good so far,” Sally said, “but more needed.”
Angela thought for a moment. “Two—Jack is witty, intelligent and intellectual. In his spare time, he goes to the opera. Angela, on the other hand, is scatty, loves practical jokes, and in her spare time she reads Marvel comics and Mills and Boons.” She sighed. “Okay, that’s enough, reality restored.”
“Okay, I admit it,” Angela said. “I do not remember.” It was now afternoon, and she hadn’t even been able to eat lunch. No chocolate and no lunch; at this rate she could starve to death. “So, have you tortured me enough? Are you going to tell me?”
“Well,” Sally said, “you remember photocopying your bottom?”
Angela frowned. “We’ve already done that one.”
“It was more a case of what you did with the photocopies.”
“What did I do?”
“I’m not going to make it that easy, but what happens at three o’clock?”
Angela thought for a moment. “Oh God. The post. I’ve posted pictures of my bottom.” She jumped to her feet. “What time is it?”
“Five to three, you should just make it if you run.”
She ran, almost bowling Jack over as he emerged from his office. She arrived at the post room with seconds to spare and pushed open the door, panting.
“Bill, help me.”
“Don’t worry, your friend came round this morning. They’re over there.” He nodded to a pile of A4 envelopes on the desk. Angela went over and stared down at them. The top one was clearly addressed, in her handwriting, to the company CEO. She reached down with trembling fingers and opened it. Inside was a sheet of paper.
Across the top was written:
Happy Christmas and X my…
Above a huge copy of a somewhat flattened bottom. It would have been unrecognizable except she had signed, “Love Angela” at the bottom. She rifled through the pile.
“My mother? Why would I send a picture of my bottom to my mother?” At least three had “Jack” scrawled across them. She sighed and picked up the pile.
“Thanks, Bill, I’m eternally grateful.”
“Well, just don’t tell me you want my babies because I honestly don’t think you’re going to have the time.”
“No,” she said, “probably not.”
She pushed open the door with an enormous sigh of relief. Another day successfully negotiated. Another disaster averted. Was she a superhero or what? All the evidence was shredded, she’d actually apologized to Martin and she’d even explained the whole recessive gene theory to Kevin, though she wasn’t entirely convinced he’d followed her reasoning.
A man was leaning against the wall outside the office. For a moment, she thought it was Kevin and almost ducked back inside. But it was Jack, and it looked like he was waiting for her. Her heart sped up and her mouth went dry. Oh God, had she missed one of those pictures? She came to a halt in front of him. Her lips wouldn’t seem to work, and she had to force herself to speak.
“It’s not my bottom,” she muttered. “It’s an alien’s bottom.” He frowned. Not the picture then. “Okay, it’s probably best you forget I said that.”
“Actually,” Jack said, “I was wondering whether you’d like to come for a drink.”
“A drink?”
“And a chat.”
“A chat?”
“Yes, I thought we should talk about these babies…”
Nina Croft grew up in the north of England. After training as an accountant she spent four years working as a volunteer in Zambia which left her with a love of the sun and a dislike of 9-5 work. After a number of years wandering the world, she has now settled down to a life of writing and picking almonds on a remote farm in the mountains of southern Spain.
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Tags: 12 Days of Christmas Stories on PC
Posted by Moira on Dec 14, 2011 in
Christmas,
Holidays,
Writing Frost
Of all the assignments I could’ve been given, this was the worst. It felt like a demotion. Had I pissed off the jolly old man? Don’t know how I would have done it, but this felt like a shit detail. I leaned against the garland-wrapped railing and stared down into the mock winter wonderland, complete with fake Santa, in the pavilion below. It all seemed out of place in the sweltering heat of…wherever the hell I’d been dropped. Beam me up Scotty, I’d like to get the elf outta here. 
I scanned the crowd, searching for my mark. It didn’t surprise me that he stood near the mechanical reindeer and Santa’s workshop. Even on the run, we still longed for familiarity. To not be the freak in the midst of humans. I didn’t move in right away, I wanted to admire the view I’d denied myself for the past year. Gorgeous, snow-white hair trailed down his back, metallic streaks of silver visible throughout, like tinsel had been woven through it. There was no mistaking Jack Frost—the man I’d avoided since the eggnog and unwrapping incident. So much beautifully lean and muscled naked elf, my cheeks heated at the memory.
Shoving the image from my mind was difficult, but I had a job to do. I weaved my way through the hordes of holiday shoppers and garish elf wood cutouts until Santa’s throne was in sight. No Jack.
“Crap!” How could I lose him so fast?
“Why are you here, Holly?”
I spun around and faced the man who’d had a starring role in my dreams for the last three hundred and sixty five days.
“You know why I’m here, Jack.” I couldn’t meet his gaze. Didn’t want to risk being swept away in those icy blue eyes that swirled and darkened when angry or lost in the throes of passion. I’d seen both.
“No, I don’t.” His voice held a note of hope when he continued. “Tell me.”
“On the job.” Something kept me from coming out and admitting he was my target.
“I won’t keep you then.” Disappointment and bitterness lined his words and took me by surprise.
“What is going on with you?”
“Nothing. Must be a real step down from your usual detail. Tell Santa I’m fine, but I’m not ready to come back.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his crisp grey slacks and started past me.
I couldn’t let him go. Allowing him to walk away would mean I failed. No matter what the history was between us, I couldn’t let that happen. Without thinking, I grabbed his arm, leaned in close enough to smell the scent of cool pine-laced breezes wafting off his skin, and whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”
He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against my cheek as he spoke. “Why?”
The slight contact wreaked havoc on my nerves and I began to tremble. He was so close. All I’d have to do is reach out and take him. But I couldn’t.
“I…wrapping.” My voice sounded far off and distant. Like I was having an out-of-body experience. Around Jack, I always wanted to be present in body, at the very least. I started to hyperventilate.
“Oh.” A small, swirling pattern of snowflakes started to take form in the depths of his eyes. “Walk with me.”
He placed his hand at the small of my back, briefly brushing my handcuffs as he did so. “You were going to handcuff me?”
“Last resort only.”
“Really?” He pulled on my over shirt to reveal my gun. “And this is purely an accessory?”
“Want me to shoot you?”
“Not if it’s filled with one of Doc’s tranqs. Wouldn’t want you to take advantage of me.” He chuckled and we started walking through the crowd.
“It’s no spiked eggnog.”
“Still equally as powerful.” With a wink, he maneuvered me into a corner. I didn’t like feeling boxed in, my back against a wall. It did give me a good view of the area though, allowing me to plan my escape route if I should need one.
With his hands splayed on the wall on either side of me, Jack rested his forehead against mine. “Why did you leave that morning?”
Of all the questions he could have asked me in that moment, that one caught me off guard. “It was a drunken night of wild abandon—”
“And wrapping paper,” he interjected.
“Yes and while it was fun, it was one night. It didn’t mean anything.” Or so I’d been trying desperately to convince myself.
“Didn’t stick around long enough to find out, did you?” He leaned in and pressed his lips gently to mine. It was only a sample of what I’d experienced that night, but oh, how good and familiar he tasted. Kissing Jack was like drinking a cup of peppermint cocoa in front of a warm fire. When he started to pull away, I wasn’t ready to lose the intimate contact and I locked my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
When we finally separated, we both were a little breathless and I leaned back against the wall to try and steady myself.
Jack quirked an eyebrow. “Meant nothing, huh?”
“Well, perhaps it meant a little.” Handcuffs—my handcuffs—snapped around my wrists. “What on earth are you doing?”
“You want to know a secret?”
“Can you tell me on the way home? I have to deliver Jack Frost to Santa’s doorstep on time. You wouldn’t want me to fail would you? Allow me to have an incomplete mission?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“No. I tell you now or I don’t tell you at all.”
Stubborn man. I could ring his neck. “Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets, Jack.”
“In all the centuries I’ve been around, I’ve never asked Santa for anything. That is— until now.”
Butterflies beat wildly in my stomach and my throat was so dry I could barely even swallow. “What did you ask for?”
“First tell me what you think of your assignment.”
“You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“No offense, but being dropped in lands unknown and dealing with heat because you refuse to do your job is hardly my idea of a choice gig. And why are you laughing?” Suddenly, I started feeling like this was all a set up. “You didn’t really leave Santa a note saying you were going on strike?”
“I did leave him a note, but nowhere did I mention abandoning my duties for the season.”
I looked around the shopping area. Taking in more than the winterscape that had been set up for Santa photos. Palm trees lined the outside of the walkways; in the distance the sounds of the surf were faint but detectable. Add to that, Jack’s lack of surprise to see me there and—“This was a set up!”
“Let’s just say I must have been VERY good this year.” He leaned in and kissed me briefly. “Because I got exactly what was on my Christmas list.”
Moira spends her daytime hours as a typical 9-5 slave chasing the almighty dollar, and raising twin zombie sons. During her evening hours, she can often be found steeped in homework, watching an episode of the Walking Dead, or penning her latest novel. She is an author of urban fantasy with a romance kicker, a woman with a penchant for men in kilts, lover of shoes, and connoisseur of Guinness! In other words...Moira is a complete mess.
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Tags: 12 Days of Christmas Stories on PC, Christmas
Posted by Tina Vaughn on Dec 13, 2011 in
Books,
Christmas,
Holidays,
Life A HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
The aging oak trim splintered as Teresa pushed in the last tack.
“Dammit.” She whispered a quick prayer of forgiveness. She hated cursing.
She arranged the pine garland to hide the dime-sized hole. Finally satisfied that no one attending tonight's party would be able to see the blemish, she turned to survey the rest of the room. From her perch on the stepladder she soaked in the scene – and smiled.
A twelve-foot tree in the corner glowed with flickering lights and silver tinsel. Above the soft melody of Christmas music, the roof creaked under the weight of last night’s snow and lanterns sizzled. On each of the fifty crimson-draped tables she’d centered a polished silver oil lamp.
Teresa took a deep breath, the scents of pine resin and cinnamon tickled her nose and brought tears to her eyes.
As the only child of a Baptist minister, most of her Novembers and Decembers, until now, had been spent polishing pews and sanctuary woodwork with her mother's homemade furniture polish. To this day every time Teresa smelled vinegar she thought of Christmas.
“That's really disturbing,” she murmured as she rubbed the mound of her belly. Did little Nicholas or Holly have a sense of smell yet? She’d have to research that when she went to work at the library in the morning.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. She had just an hour before the party began. Jolene would be here any minute with the food. That would give Teresa just enough time to get home, get changed and get back.
There was a lot of getting to be done this time of year.
She wasn't sure what it was – maybe a noise or a movement – that caught her attention. She turned toward the door, and her breath exited her lungs in a violent whoosh, leaving her lightheaded. There stood Jeremiah, his broad shoulders filling the entryway, as equal parts happiness and anger filled her heart.
He'd come home.
She lost her footing, the stepladder rocked, tilted…
She didn’t actually have time to panic. It just sorta happened. Dizziness, a flash of light, hot and cold…
“God, help me,” she whispered.
“Hell, woman.”
Suddenly she was on the ground, but she was standing, not sprawled on the scarred floor as she’d dreaded.
A big, muscled arm cradled her back while a giant hand pressed her face into the rough wool of a coat still carrying the chill of wind and dampness of blowing snow.
Her knees shook and her stomach quivered like a lime-gelatin wreath.
Seconds passed. Long anxiety-laced seconds in which she heard and felt, warm, reassuring, deep-voiced murmurings from the man who held her tightly. Tears burned her eyes and throat. It was the first hug she'd had since he left.
Where had he been? Why hadn't he called? She wanted to punch him in his square jaw or kick him in the shins. He was the only person in the world who made her feel so violent – or so good. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.
Tension drained from her muscles, and the shaking eased.
She leaned back. Well, as far back as he’d let her.
“Jeremiah? Jeremiah Roberts?” It was more question than statement, despite the fact he was right there and touching her.
“It's me.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Did you forget what I look like?”
Never. Even frowning, Jeremiah was the best-looking man she'd ever seen. Her heart jumped and lodged in her throat.
His eyes were as green as the pine tree in the corner, and his jaw was shadowed by stubble the same deep black as his hair. His cheeks were red from the cold and she almost reached up to touch them. Almost.
But, she hadn’t seen him in – she automatically rubbed her stomach when the baby kicked – well, it seemed like forever.
It would be presumptuous of her, wouldn’t it? To initiate such contact.
She settled for curling her fingers around the lapels of his coat. She didn't know whether to shake him or pull him closer, to laugh or cry.
Jeremiah stared down at her belly, then back to her face. His eyes were filled with questions that probably wouldn’t pass his lips.
He’d never been curious about her, had always tried to avoid her.
Except for that once…
Teresa's confusion was as obvious as the giant ball of her belly pressed firmly against him.
He reached and pulled a pine needle from her hair. Her pretty blue eyes widened and her mouth puckered. He almost leaned in to kiss her. But, shit, there was a baby between them. And that meant there was a man…
He dropped the pine needle on the floor. At her grimace he bent down and picked it up, shoved it in his coat pocket. The place was as pretty as a photo on one of those home-decorating magazines. Teresa had probably cleaned and decorated the room all by herself.
Everybody took advantage of her… including him.
She deserved better. That's one of the reasons he'd left.
Jeremiah might want her. She might want him, but what she needed was some nice, nine-to-five guy who opened car doors and bought her flowers and candy. Had she found one?
He searched for a wedding band. There was no way she’d be having a baby without a husband.
But her fingers were bare, as were her wrists. Her nails were short and plain. No bling for Teresa.
Of course, her beauty was God-given. She was an angel. Pale skin and blonde hair, all sweetness and goodness. Halo-bright.
Regret and jealousy burned a path from his gut to his throat, even as he exhaled in relief. So Teresa had a man, but they weren't married. Jeremiah still had time… for what, exactly, he didn't know. Because nowhere in his Teresa-inspired fantasies had he imagined a freakin' baby.
He rubbed his thumb over her cheek. She had the softest skin he'd ever touched. “You okay?”
Teresa glanced toward the overturned ladder then examined his face. “You mean right now or since you've been gone?”
He ignored the disappointment, the accusation in her question. He'd stick with now. That's all he could handle.
“What the hell were you doing up on that ladder, anyway?”
Why the hell are you pregnant?
“It’s just a stepladder.” She adjusted her glasses and sniffed. “You scared me.”
He scared himself. Just before he’d left town nine months ago…
His eyes automatically drifted to her belly. The old pink sweatshirt she wore was too tight, stretched so taut that she — oh, Jesus. There was no way in hell. No way.
“You look ready to pop.” The words flew from his mouth and he cringed. He’d never had a bit of tact.
Teresa’s cheeks flushed. She wiggled in his arms.
“I – I tried to call you.”
“Call me?” He shook his head. “I don’t have a cell anymore.” He’d tossed that thing before he’d left town. Besides, where he’d been, he couldn’t have it anyway.
“Oh.” Teresa’s cheeks turned bright red — and he knew.
He dropped his arms and turned his back on her so she wouldn’t see the panic stamped on his face.
Honest to God, his heart pumped faster, sweat trickled down his back and his throat closed up so tight he could barely breathe — the same reaction he'd had that morning nine months ago when he'd woken up with the worst hangover of his life, Teresa draped over him like a quilt and no memory of how she'd gotten there.
Well, that wasn't exactly true. He recalled one thing from that night – thinking he had no business kissing the preacher's daughter while his breath reeked of Jack Daniels.
He'd done it anyway and apparently a whole lot more.
He swiped his hand over his face and through his hair, counted to ten… stalling. Finally, he cleared his throat. “What would you have told me if I answered the phone?”
“I — Oh!”
At Teresa’s painful exclamation he was at her side in an instant, his pulse a painful, pounding rhythm that made him woozy.
She was bent over, rubbing her belly.
She breathed in quick, loud pants, and when whatever was going on had passed, she looked up, her pale face tense with fear.
Her cold fingers curled around his. She needed him, and just like that, Jeremiah's panic faded.
“We’re having a baby,” she whispered. “I would've told you we're having a baby.”
Time stopped. Teresa blinked up at him and Bing Crosby sang something about Christmas dreams and light and love –
“Jeremiah?” Teresa squeezed his hand. She might as well have been holding his heart. Actually, she already did. She just didn't know it… yet.
He kissed the top of her head and swept her up into his arms, where she belonged. “And I would've told you I'm coming home,” he said.
Tina is a wife, mother and newspaper editor who enjoys writing contemporary romance. "The world is full of dark, depressing news. When I read and write I want to know that my 'Once upon a time' ends with 'and they lived happily ever after.'"
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Tags: Christmas, Passionate Christmas, Passionate Critters, Romance, short stories, Tina Vaughn, Twelve Days of Christmas
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Dec 12, 2011 in
Life As we count down the day to Christmas with 12 heartwarming, CHRISTMAS STORIES.
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: christmas stories, count down, Romance, short stories
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Dec 4, 2011 in
Life Even though this month is a busy month, often filled with shopping, parties, deadlines at work, family visits, the ladies at PC are awful busy!! We're writing, critiquing, discussing the market and the upcoming year. It's a sign of things to come and I'm really excited about 2012 all of a sudden. I just feel that good things are going to happen. You know what? That makes it easier to relax around the holidays. And that's my plan! Keep writing. Keep reading. …and enjoy life. Stop by on the 13th when we start our countdown to Christmas with SHORT STORIES from PASSIONATE CRITTERS! If you're not in the mood to celebrate Christmas, these stories will get you there.
THE 13TH! I can't wait for it. I've read every story and I'm excited!
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Nov 20, 2011 in
Life This week–okay, every week, but this week in particular because it's the week we United States Americans celebrate Thanksgiving–I'm so thankful for this group of ladies at Passionate Critters.
1. They keep me humble, reminding me often that I need to keep working, keep improving if I want to succeed.
2. They make me laugh. At least three times a week, I know a conversation we're having on the forum will make me, if not burst out loud, chuckle and/or blush.
3. My writing partners are very smart. I have a wealth of resource in these ladies, from copy edits to plotting and cover art to marketing/promotion.
4. We're friends. It's not a given that a bunch of writers, from different parts of the world, with different lifestyles and different beliefs will come together and mesh, but we do.
I'm THANKFUL every day for this group of people.
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Oct 18, 2011 in
Books,
Goals,
Movies,
Research,
Writing Craft Think Ghost, right?
Or Pearl Harbor…
So, I pulled out an old story to work on, and I'm sitting here wondering how to create some emotion, but not too much emotion that I might tick off my readers when I kill one of the good guys. And not just any good guy, but the heroine's husband. I just don't have it in me to make him bad. You know, like he cheated on her or he only seemed like a good guy and as the mystery unfolds, we see an evil side.
Nah. I don't want that.
Unfortunately, that means I have to kill a good guy.
Key elements to killing a good guy.
- Make it worthwhile. None of this killed-in-an-accident or innocent-bystander bull.
- Make it good [a little drama never hurt]. Bullets, knives, torture. Don't make it slow. And never kill them with a coma!
- Highlight at least one flaw. When we don't want them to be bad guys, we have to be honest with ourselves. Even a hero has flaws. Maybe he was annoyingly organized or perhaps he didn't want children.
- Keep the backstory short. I hate this one, but you don't want your reader to love a dead guy more than the new guy.
What I've learned and gleened from years of letting this manuscript stew.
So, give it to me straight… what are your rules for killing a good guy?
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: Death of a Hero, Ghost, Killing the good guy, manipulation of the story, Pearl Harbor
