Trigger Warning
Equestrian prodigy Roan Montgomery has been sexually assaulted by her father, Monty, since she was six years old. For ten years, he has subjected her to every physical act of sexual abuse from fondling to violent rape. This brutal fact is the cornerstone of my debut novel, Dark Horses (Scout Press, 2021).
People often ask me, “Where did you get this idea?” What they really want to know is, “Did this happen to you?”
No. No member of my family ever sexually assaulted me in any way. No inappropriate kissing. No fondling. No penetration.
But maybe—in oblique ways—there are autobiographical elements. Writers are often advised to write what you know. That advice has been modified to write what you want to know. I’d modify it further: And even, sometimes, what you don’t want to know.
In dream analysis, there’s a theory that all the characters in your dream represent part of you. Whether they are main or secondary characters or even have a walk-on role, all of them spring from your subconscious.
Similarly, I believe every character I write represents part of me.
Of course, every character includes Monty, a malignant narcissist and sexual predator. The best writing advice I’ve ever read comes from John Dufresne’s book, The Lie That Tells a Truth: Don’t judge your characters. Not judging Monty is one of the hardest tasks I’ve undertaken as a writer. We see for ourselves that he’s clearly guilty. But I was writing a book, not sitting on a jury. A character who’s all bad doesn’t have any depth.
To fight my tendency to judge Monty, I gave him some positive qualities: his mind-melding communication with horses, his professionalism, the consideration he shows his employees, the respect and affection of his competitors—even, as Roan observes, his ability to get parenting right some of the time.
The next morning, there was a pile of presents under the tree. I was afraid Mama
had made an appearance via consumer-excess proxy, but all the tags read Love,
Daddy. He usually bought me one or two nice things, not loads of stuff. He was
compensating for Mama’s absence. It was weirdly touching, something a normal
father would do.
Roan, the story’s protagonist, navigates her family life by developing her empathy, enabling her to anticipate her parents’ moods and walk through the emotional and psychological minefield she lives in. I gave her the latitude to make mistakes and the occasional poor decision. With the balance of power skewed entirely in her father’s favor, she is incapable of doing everything right. She is trying to survive with her professional goals and herself intact. Monty has threatened to sell her horses if she doesn’t obey his rules, but even that isn’t the most powerful threat he holds over her head. Because Roan finds pleasure in sex, he has convinced her she’s complicit. Her shame over this renders her powerless. It limits and controls her—yet as her relationship with a boy her own age develops, she begins to push back against her father’s constraints, as when she cuts her hair immediately before an interview, much to Monty’s consternation.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“It was tangled. I couldn’t get the comb through it.”
“You expect me to believe that? There’s got to be more to it.”
The phantom sensation of his fingers in my hair made my skin ripple, like a
horsefly had landed on me.
I whispered my answer. “Wind your fingers in this.”
He went very still. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Wind your fingers in this.’” This time the words lilted on my tongue.
Incest doesn’t look one particular way, but I knew how it looked between Roan and Monty. Dark Horses had to be gritty and realistic. This is why I chose not to fade to black in writing the sex scenes and also why I chose to write in first person. I wanted readers to identify with Roan as closely as possible—and despite her lack of power in her relationship with her father, I wanted readers to see her strength. My favorite line in Dark Horses comes toward the end.
I tried [. . .] to find peace with the hard truth about myself: I’d rather be complicit
than be a victim.
That line sums up Roan’s character—not only as a character in a book, but also her character—the distinctive qualities that make her who she is. She’s close to my heart. I hope readers find her a worthy protagonist.
People often ask me, “Where did you get this idea?” What they really want to know is, “Did this happen to you?”
No. No member of my family ever sexually assaulted me in any way. No inappropriate kissing. No fondling. No penetration.
But maybe—in oblique ways—there are autobiographical elements. Writers are often advised to write what you know. That advice has been modified to write what you want to know. I’d modify it further: And even, sometimes, what you don’t want to know.
In dream analysis, there’s a theory that all the characters in your dream represent part of you. Whether they are main or secondary characters or even have a walk-on role, all of them spring from your subconscious.
Similarly, I believe every character I write represents part of me.
Of course, every character includes Monty, a malignant narcissist and sexual predator. The best writing advice I’ve ever read comes from John Dufresne’s book, The Lie That Tells a Truth: Don’t judge your characters. Not judging Monty is one of the hardest tasks I’ve undertaken as a writer. We see for ourselves that he’s clearly guilty. But I was writing a book, not sitting on a jury. A character who’s all bad doesn’t have any depth.
To fight my tendency to judge Monty, I gave him some positive qualities: his mind-melding communication with horses, his professionalism, the consideration he shows his employees, the respect and affection of his competitors—even, as Roan observes, his ability to get parenting right some of the time.
The next morning, there was a pile of presents under the tree. I was afraid Mama
had made an appearance via consumer-excess proxy, but all the tags read Love,
Daddy. He usually bought me one or two nice things, not loads of stuff. He was
compensating for Mama’s absence. It was weirdly touching, something a normal
father would do.
Roan, the story’s protagonist, navigates her family life by developing her empathy, enabling her to anticipate her parents’ moods and walk through the emotional and psychological minefield she lives in. I gave her the latitude to make mistakes and the occasional poor decision. With the balance of power skewed entirely in her father’s favor, she is incapable of doing everything right. She is trying to survive with her professional goals and herself intact. Monty has threatened to sell her horses if she doesn’t obey his rules, but even that isn’t the most powerful threat he holds over her head. Because Roan finds pleasure in sex, he has convinced her she’s complicit. Her shame over this renders her powerless. It limits and controls her—yet as her relationship with a boy her own age develops, she begins to push back against her father’s constraints, as when she cuts her hair immediately before an interview, much to Monty’s consternation.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“It was tangled. I couldn’t get the comb through it.”
“You expect me to believe that? There’s got to be more to it.”
The phantom sensation of his fingers in my hair made my skin ripple, like a
horsefly had landed on me.
I whispered my answer. “Wind your fingers in this.”
He went very still. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Wind your fingers in this.’” This time the words lilted on my tongue.
Incest doesn’t look one particular way, but I knew how it looked between Roan and Monty. Dark Horses had to be gritty and realistic. This is why I chose not to fade to black in writing the sex scenes and also why I chose to write in first person. I wanted readers to identify with Roan as closely as possible—and despite her lack of power in her relationship with her father, I wanted readers to see her strength. My favorite line in Dark Horses comes toward the end.
I tried [. . .] to find peace with the hard truth about myself: I’d rather be complicit
than be a victim.
That line sums up Roan’s character—not only as a character in a book, but also her character—the distinctive qualities that make her who she is. She’s close to my heart. I hope readers find her a worthy protagonist.
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