R.G. Richards's Blog, page 2
May 23, 2012
Meet Brittany Dushell
If you haven’t read my book Zombie Zora, then you haven’t met Brittany Dushell. Allow me to give you a little background information on this beauty. Brittany is that, a beauty, a winner of several beauty contests before the world went to hell, two years ago.
Brittany grew up dirt poor in the slums of St. Louis, Missouri. She was blessed with attractive looks so her mother entered her into a toddler’s beauty pageant. To her surprise, her baby girl won, easily. Once her mom got her greedy hands on the first check for several thousand dollars, she was hooked. She had found the proverbial goose that laid the golden egg.
April Dushell was herself a former beauty queen, so her daughter being born with her golden locks and deep blue eyes were a given. Brittany’s height and poise were a blessing from God and if not for the vile creatures who made a habit of pawing her, she would have gladly continued on the pageant circuit and no doubt risen to the highest level to assume the title of Miss Universe.
Through a series of misfortunes, Brittany wound up a soldier in the United States Army which allowed her to fulfill her life’s ambition: taking out her frustrations from her youth, by shooting and bashing her enemies. After all, what other purpose does the military serve? It was built for those who like to shoot people. It was built for those who like to kill people and get away with it. It was built for those who like to blow up things. Forget the catchy slogans. If you want to kill, shoot, stab, or blow up people and buildings, join the military and live your dream.
Each of us undergoes our own therapy. For Brittany, she proves her worth by assaulting those who might assault her. Throw in a bunch of zombies, and she is in hog heaven. Which to bash first, a human or a zombie? Choices, choices. Read Zombie Zora and watch Zora’s BFF, Brittany, work her magic. If you happen to be a zombie and look like an ex-boyfriend or guy that got too frisky, bam, her lead pipe will gladly find your head. You just made her day. Travel safely in Zombieland.
Brittany grew up dirt poor in the slums of St. Louis, Missouri. She was blessed with attractive looks so her mother entered her into a toddler’s beauty pageant. To her surprise, her baby girl won, easily. Once her mom got her greedy hands on the first check for several thousand dollars, she was hooked. She had found the proverbial goose that laid the golden egg.
April Dushell was herself a former beauty queen, so her daughter being born with her golden locks and deep blue eyes were a given. Brittany’s height and poise were a blessing from God and if not for the vile creatures who made a habit of pawing her, she would have gladly continued on the pageant circuit and no doubt risen to the highest level to assume the title of Miss Universe.
Through a series of misfortunes, Brittany wound up a soldier in the United States Army which allowed her to fulfill her life’s ambition: taking out her frustrations from her youth, by shooting and bashing her enemies. After all, what other purpose does the military serve? It was built for those who like to shoot people. It was built for those who like to kill people and get away with it. It was built for those who like to blow up things. Forget the catchy slogans. If you want to kill, shoot, stab, or blow up people and buildings, join the military and live your dream.
Each of us undergoes our own therapy. For Brittany, she proves her worth by assaulting those who might assault her. Throw in a bunch of zombies, and she is in hog heaven. Which to bash first, a human or a zombie? Choices, choices. Read Zombie Zora and watch Zora’s BFF, Brittany, work her magic. If you happen to be a zombie and look like an ex-boyfriend or guy that got too frisky, bam, her lead pipe will gladly find your head. You just made her day. Travel safely in Zombieland.
May 16, 2012
Perfect Heroine
I have seen so many books that have a heroine who happens to be the most beautiful creature in the world. I mean every guy, animal, or whatever the case may be wants to have sex with her or possess her. She is so irresistible and get this, it is nothing she is doing on purpose, it’s just that “whatever factor”––she happens to possess it. Sorry to all the struggling women out there, you’re just out of luck if she shows up on the scene.
I have also seen, I guess I should say read for clarity, too many stories where she is the smallest thing, yet whips men twice as big as she. She always has to be the biggest and boldest badass in the room. Don’t worry, somehow, someway, she will save the day all by her lonesome. She has to, no one else is capable of setting things right, remember. Ridicules. I hate that recipe.
And let us not forget the ever-present triangle where the girl is human and the two guys or not. Perhaps one is shall we say dead for centuries, wow, great necrophilia story. I mean I would definitely want my teenage daughter to go to a graveyard and dig up a corpse and have sex with it. I’m a good parent, after all. I digress. Let’s get back to our perfect heroine. While one is possibly dead, the other is shall we say some type of beast or transformative being. I double hate that recipe. I know its fantasy and my mind stretches quite nicely, but I like more believable romance. For instance, I like Harry Potter for the simple reason that it’s an average-looking, nerdy boy, desperately searching for a girl, as clumsily as possible and she happens to be human. He may save the world, but girls don’t lose every shred of decorum and throw themselves at his feet, as if she will die if he doesn’t want her. I know that is not the plot, it is the plot I like though.
For my series, I chose Zora to be a woman of average looks. She is not the most special woman in the world and quite frankly, there is nothing remotely exciting about her. She makes due by highlighting her strengths like loyalty, stubbornness, dedication, but her many weaknesses creep into everyday life causing her problems. I chose to give the title of super badass to another. I chose to give the title of most beautiful and desirable to another. So how can our heroine become the perfect heroine without these props? She doesn’t need them. In due time, she will make decisions that are selfless and prove her worth. She will see how her tunnel vision leads her astray and learns to get out of her comfort zone and step out onto a high wire with no safety net below. She will willingly put her life in the hands of others and find that it doesn’t make her weak, in fact, it strengthens her. These are the things I want to get across and make a heroine, a perfect heroine.
Now, as to likeablity—for the record—I planned on making her not likeable in the beginning. I wanted a break from the many stories of the sexy badass who gets the most attractive man. It’s played out and I refuse to go there. I want the reader to hate her first and then grow to love her, realizing she is a product of environment. Around the right influences, she shines.
So, the perfect heroine is a work in progress as far as I am concerned. She cannot start off in a position of power, she evolves into it. It is okay for her to help save the world, but to single handedly do it while others helplessly watch, no, no, no, no, no. As big as this world is, no single person can save it themselves. Now, you are stretching my suspension of disbelief to its max. I refuse to go there. I’m not alone.
Make a perfect heroine. Give her challenges to overcome and keep moving the goal posts. For her to win, she has to lose, and who wants that? It means you have reached the end of the story.
I have also seen, I guess I should say read for clarity, too many stories where she is the smallest thing, yet whips men twice as big as she. She always has to be the biggest and boldest badass in the room. Don’t worry, somehow, someway, she will save the day all by her lonesome. She has to, no one else is capable of setting things right, remember. Ridicules. I hate that recipe.
And let us not forget the ever-present triangle where the girl is human and the two guys or not. Perhaps one is shall we say dead for centuries, wow, great necrophilia story. I mean I would definitely want my teenage daughter to go to a graveyard and dig up a corpse and have sex with it. I’m a good parent, after all. I digress. Let’s get back to our perfect heroine. While one is possibly dead, the other is shall we say some type of beast or transformative being. I double hate that recipe. I know its fantasy and my mind stretches quite nicely, but I like more believable romance. For instance, I like Harry Potter for the simple reason that it’s an average-looking, nerdy boy, desperately searching for a girl, as clumsily as possible and she happens to be human. He may save the world, but girls don’t lose every shred of decorum and throw themselves at his feet, as if she will die if he doesn’t want her. I know that is not the plot, it is the plot I like though.
For my series, I chose Zora to be a woman of average looks. She is not the most special woman in the world and quite frankly, there is nothing remotely exciting about her. She makes due by highlighting her strengths like loyalty, stubbornness, dedication, but her many weaknesses creep into everyday life causing her problems. I chose to give the title of super badass to another. I chose to give the title of most beautiful and desirable to another. So how can our heroine become the perfect heroine without these props? She doesn’t need them. In due time, she will make decisions that are selfless and prove her worth. She will see how her tunnel vision leads her astray and learns to get out of her comfort zone and step out onto a high wire with no safety net below. She will willingly put her life in the hands of others and find that it doesn’t make her weak, in fact, it strengthens her. These are the things I want to get across and make a heroine, a perfect heroine.
Now, as to likeablity—for the record—I planned on making her not likeable in the beginning. I wanted a break from the many stories of the sexy badass who gets the most attractive man. It’s played out and I refuse to go there. I want the reader to hate her first and then grow to love her, realizing she is a product of environment. Around the right influences, she shines.
So, the perfect heroine is a work in progress as far as I am concerned. She cannot start off in a position of power, she evolves into it. It is okay for her to help save the world, but to single handedly do it while others helplessly watch, no, no, no, no, no. As big as this world is, no single person can save it themselves. Now, you are stretching my suspension of disbelief to its max. I refuse to go there. I’m not alone.
Make a perfect heroine. Give her challenges to overcome and keep moving the goal posts. For her to win, she has to lose, and who wants that? It means you have reached the end of the story.
May 7, 2012
Wet Books Do Cause Pain.
Thinking back to my past, I recall an interesting fact about both parents. My mother found peace with candles and baths while my father found his peace in the pages of a good book. Mother’s ritual was to fill her large bathtub with water, throw in her bubble maker and oils, and light up to half a dozen candles of various sizes and scents. We all knew when she was taking a bath. Many times I was in my room and the scent would filter in on a wave of peaceful understanding. If mom had been mad at you before, after her bath would be the perfect time to approach her for forgiveness. Many a time I found myself at that bathroom door—I rarely was alone, as I waited for the bubbles and candles to work their magic.
My father, would slip into the tattered, comfy recliner he rescued from our neighbors’ front curb. He would open his book, light his cigar, and lean back. Anyone brave enough to disturb him faced extinction. Never bother him at that time. Wait until he rose to run to the kitchen for a reading snack. At that time, you would catch him in a hurry to agree with whatever you wanted so he could get back to his book. Books were better than TV. I never understood that until later. I was a kid and there was nothing better than TV and cartoons. Who could understand old people? They were strange.
One day, they were out. I forget why. I had a need to understand these mysteries. Instead of taking them one at a time—I know you know where I’m going—I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Great saying, isn’t? Well, I filled the tub and had plenty of bubbles. I lit a couple candles and inhaled deeply. I grabbed one of his James Clavell books and placed it on the edge of the tub.
I was smart, I checked for the all-clear before locking the door and getting into the tub. I got comfortable and was feeling good. It was easy to see how baths and scented candles made you feel good. My small head ducked under the water and it was fantastic. Perfect.
Okay, I guess I better get to the problem. I picked up the book and began reading. My hands were wet, but I didn’t give it a second thought. I began reading and in the middle of a great passage, the book slipped out of my wet grip and plunked into the tub. I can’t tell you how horrified I was. I know I stopped breathing for an eternity with the look of pure shock across my face. Eyes as big as saucers and mouth stretched open to the point of dislocating something I might need later.
I frantically dried the book, only I was in the tub wiping with sud-filled hands. Oh God! Did I mention daddy was a big guy, a carpenter and farmer with huge, rough hands and a bad disposition. You know—the wild heathen that only momma could tame.
Well, I won’t bore you any further. To make a long story short, he tanned my hide and instead of going to camp that summer, my camping fee was used to buy him a new book. Since then, I have managed on occasion “to borrow” a book or two while they were out of town. Never again did I venture into that tub and once and for all I realized water and books don’t go together. In fact, bringing them together causes pain.
Learn from my mistake and do better. Cya.
My father, would slip into the tattered, comfy recliner he rescued from our neighbors’ front curb. He would open his book, light his cigar, and lean back. Anyone brave enough to disturb him faced extinction. Never bother him at that time. Wait until he rose to run to the kitchen for a reading snack. At that time, you would catch him in a hurry to agree with whatever you wanted so he could get back to his book. Books were better than TV. I never understood that until later. I was a kid and there was nothing better than TV and cartoons. Who could understand old people? They were strange.
One day, they were out. I forget why. I had a need to understand these mysteries. Instead of taking them one at a time—I know you know where I’m going—I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Great saying, isn’t? Well, I filled the tub and had plenty of bubbles. I lit a couple candles and inhaled deeply. I grabbed one of his James Clavell books and placed it on the edge of the tub.
I was smart, I checked for the all-clear before locking the door and getting into the tub. I got comfortable and was feeling good. It was easy to see how baths and scented candles made you feel good. My small head ducked under the water and it was fantastic. Perfect.
Okay, I guess I better get to the problem. I picked up the book and began reading. My hands were wet, but I didn’t give it a second thought. I began reading and in the middle of a great passage, the book slipped out of my wet grip and plunked into the tub. I can’t tell you how horrified I was. I know I stopped breathing for an eternity with the look of pure shock across my face. Eyes as big as saucers and mouth stretched open to the point of dislocating something I might need later.
I frantically dried the book, only I was in the tub wiping with sud-filled hands. Oh God! Did I mention daddy was a big guy, a carpenter and farmer with huge, rough hands and a bad disposition. You know—the wild heathen that only momma could tame.
Well, I won’t bore you any further. To make a long story short, he tanned my hide and instead of going to camp that summer, my camping fee was used to buy him a new book. Since then, I have managed on occasion “to borrow” a book or two while they were out of town. Never again did I venture into that tub and once and for all I realized water and books don’t go together. In fact, bringing them together causes pain.
Learn from my mistake and do better. Cya.
