Bass-ass lady, or work-a-day dude?
Do you prefer female or male protagonists? I often wonder which is better, or if there even is a
“better.” I have plenty of strong female characters in my writing. And those
females aren’t a social statement, just a reflection of raising three
daughters, as well as enjoying strong female action leads.
On the flip side of the coin, I’m not a huge fan of the
chiseled, rock-jawed, and unflawed slabs of meat Hollywood frequently selects as their leading
men. Obviously, or at least semi-obviously, I’m not talking about the actors,
but rather the characters the script creates. I prefer writing about guys I can
relate to. Folks who have flaws and doubts, guys who read books, play video
games, and are often accidental heroes. Men just doing what they must do, day
in, day out.
Two of my favorite creations are Mike Hudson, the
protagonist in World at War: Revelations,
and Gaelan Katsarous, a significant part of “The Greatest Fear.” Neither is
Against the far wall was his prized
possession, the Kenwood stereo. Speakers two feet tall, a 60-watt amp,
turntable, cassette player, and beside it a rack of cassette tapes that would
have done a music station proud. He dumped most of his check into cassette
tapes, LPs, and books. Music and books were his loves…well, that and games.
Some might call him a geek, he called himself eclectic. Maybe even a
renaissance man. There was a couch on the other end of the room. Above it a
small chiming wall clock. He loved the chimes, they calmed him, connected him
with a past full of chiming clocks. To the right of the couch stood a lamp that
he bought at the PX and a small end table. It was there he sat in the morning,
the early morning, his favorite time of the day. Sipping coffee…always strong…
he liked his coffee strong, and the beer bitter.
Certainly not a macho dude, but as the story often shows, a
man capable of action.
By the same token, Gaelan Katsarous’s complete name is used
only once in the short story, “The Greatest Fear,” when he is introduced.
Throughout the rest of the tale he is known simply as Worm. As his friend Jacob
Hood explains, Gaelan is “Always with the paperback, always reading. A
bookworm. Worm for short.”
Not a typical action hero.
By contrast, Katarina, who stars in both World at War: Revelation, and Everyone Dies in the End, is a vampire’s
vampire. I hate to once again boot an oft-kicked dead horse, but she sure as
hell doesn’t glisten in the sunlight. Katarina owns her badness. I tried to
create a completely amoral character. She isn’t any more conflicted over
sucking a teenager’s blood than we are over eating a serving of lasagna. Below she meets a nice Soviet mortar crew.
She
dropped to the ground behind one of the mortar’s swallow revetments as the
guard’s AK-74 rounds whined through the air over her head. She licked her lips,
savoring the taste of fresh human blood from the mortar man’s split skull, and
spitting the grizzle out. The hole in her shoulder was weeping dark,
midnight-dark blood, but already the wound was closing. Her ears tracked the
footsteps of the Soviets as she slid her hand across the pavement to the silent
Makarov. Soon there would be more, perhaps more than even she could deal with,
but there was still time to deal with these two. The two that dared to shoot
her.
The
footsteps were closer. Only one set. No doubt one was advancing, sure she was
at least injured, if not dead, while the other covered him with his rifle. She
smirked. There would be no covering. Closer now, the footsteps were almost at
the revetment. Any closer and he might be able to see her. She stood and stared
into the young pimply face of the Soviet paratrooper. She stared into and past,
past to the Soviet leveling his rifle.
“Surprise!”
She smiled, her elongated incisors clearly visible.
More
quickly than the human eye could follow, the Makarov pistol came up and bucked
twice, its crack echoing against the buildings facing the square. The covering
Soviet dropped, his rifle clattering on the cobblestones. The pimply-faced boy
raised his rifle, at least he began to raise his rifle, but before it moved the
Makarov was under his chin. “No.”
The
rifle stopped moving.
“Drop
it.” He did.
Stupid
boy, she thought as she pressed her lips against his neck, bit the flesh, and
began to suck.
So how do you like your
protagonists? Bass-ass lady, or work-a-day dude?
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