An Angry Little Girl

I talked about the concept of "voice" in my first post, and how sad it is that a writer with a voice not like that of the successful mainstream authors rarely gets to be heard anymore. My voice is definitely not that of 99% of the authors published these days. It is that of my lead character in my mob novel Long Shot: Fiona Rea, a totally unique creation in this world of "What's going to sell like Rowling?" characters. Fiona is not some upstanding, admirable, model-your-daughters-after-her heroine; in today's PC parlance, she has "issues". She's very, very angry. The world pisses her off, and she's willing to take it on as often as necessary in order to keep the demons that rip at her soul from devouring her. She thinks that the best way to exorcise these demons once and for all is to become a mob assassin; she learns that this isn't true and that she's not the lost cause she imagines from a most unlikely source. In the end Fiona finds peace, not without a lot of harrowing experiences and in her own unique out-of-the-box way, and I'm very proud of her for that.

Fiona is also me without the restraints I impose upon myself on a daily basis. No, I would not become a mob assassin if given the opportunity (although every time I think of Fiona knocking a jerk stockbroker who gets out of line with her in the book out cold I still get a warm glow) but I, too, have issues, and an anger that surges through me so hotly that I think I will burst. I won't go into the reasons why, but anyone who read my story "Lost" in last year's Prairie Voices knows that answer. And if you were to read a chapter in Long Shot where Fiona recalls a certain incident in a park you would know much more.

The revelation of this seething rage I bear would probably surprise most people. Apparently, most of those I encounter think of me as this calm, quiet, funny, intelligent person who comes and goes and tries to handle trouble like an adult. That's who I am, but only because I force myself to be. The real me, while intelligent (and far too proud of that fact, I admit) is anything but calm and quiet. The real me is constantly spoiling for a fight. Part of this stems from incidents in my life that I have disguised as fiction in my work, but part of it also comes from the fact that the older I get the less tolerance I have for stupidity. Losing my ability to make estrogen back in October certainly didn't help this situation. Honest to God (as Fiona would say) sometimes I get so ticked at the fools in this world that I just want to beat the crap out of them. Why can't I drive down the block, go into a store, order a pizza, teach a class without encountering people who have no clue how to behave or do their jobs and don't feel a need to learn?It's maddening. Sometimes I think that if I go into one more store where 18 year-old Tiffany talks on her designer pink cell phone while she grudgingly takes a moment from her busy social life to check my purchase I'll be on the 6 o'clock news in the back of a patrol car.

Okay, I've just scared myself. And that's the fundamental difference between Fiona and me: I am frightened of the creature that would be unleashed if I were to give in and ram that cell phone down Tiffany's throat, and Fiona isn't. Fiona, frankly, would kick Tiffany's butt from here to Thursday without a moment's hesitation. Yeah, she'd go to jail, but she wouldn't give a damn about that. Fiona lives in the moment, while I am at a distinct disadvantage to her because I can consider the consequences of my actions and I was raised well.

Am I better off not being Fiona? Probably. I'm not sure how jail would affect me (I have frequent nightmares about being incarcerated...I wonder what that says about an ex-probation officer) and I'd rather not find out. But sometimes, when I've gritted my teeth and been polite to some inconsiderate ass because I don't want to get into a fight in a checkout line or a gas station, I wonder just how liberating it would be to let go and say "To hell with the consequences, I'm pissed!"

I need to find another character to bring to life so I can channel this rage. Fiona was wonderful therapy, but I think she needs to mature into someone closer to me in age and physical features. About the only thing we share is Irish blood -- Fiona's young, slender, and hot, and I'm not. Maybe I can find a way to make a 46 year-old, overweight, post-hysterectomy, part-time academic with a frightening inner fury as interesting as Fiona. If I can I'm writing her, the mass market possibilities be damned.