Skip to main content

What kind of killer are you?

Telling a group of people how you'd kill them -- or just telling them what kind of killer you'd be -- is a genius conversation starter. It's a very personal thing -- murder -- and it divulges a great deal about a person's character.

I accidentally stabbed Jerod with a toothpick once. I was tickling the bottom of his foot, and he tried to kick my hand away, but he got the toothpick instead, and it lodged in his toe. I felt a little pop as it penetrated his skin -- I heard it too like a knuckle cracking. And I remember thinking at the time:  how could anyone do this with a knife on purpose? It was awful -- almost as bad as the sound the cartilage in his ear made when I tugged it a bit harder than I should have. Ick.


I'm not the type to get my hands dirty. I'd be a Ted Kaczynski or a John Doe (Seven) minus the beheading, stabbing and prostitute killing -- John often manipulated his victims into choosing death over things they perceived were much worse. 

You're perhaps wondering where I'm going with all of this -- those of you who know me might be reaching for your phones and security weapons right now -- I bring this up only as it pertains to my writing. I've had the darnedest time killing my victim characters, because it requires me to think like a murderer, and thinking like one makes me feel like a murderer -- much like the struggle Catholic teens go through with sex and feeling pervy -- the surly nun perched on their shoulders smacking their foreheads with her ruler scolding, "thinking about it is just as bad as doing it."

It's why I wish EA Games would come up with a Sims that includes "serial killer" in the aspirations menu. That way I'd simply observe my simulated people in action -- I'd throw them together in a house and note how they killed one another. Brilliant, isn't it; a simulated social experiment. But I doubt it will come to fruition considering the looks I get from people I talk to of such things.

So I'm back at square one: 

What kind of a killer am I? How do I separate my villain's motivations from my own -- is it possible to create a psycho killer without feeling like one? Otherwise my murders will all be justified or committed cowardly from a sniper's distance -- boring

What kind of killer are you?

Comments

  1. Oh, Alexis.
    1. If you really wanted a serial killer picture, I could have forwarded you some from our "Those We Do Not Speak Of" photo shoot.
    2. In the Sims, I used to kill my guys by drowning them in the swimming pool, or locking them in a room with 12 lit fireplaces. How they'd do it to each other, however would be interesting.
    3. See you NEXT MONTH!

    ReplyDelete
  2. I'm afraid writers have the best and worst of the world jumbled in their minds. On one hand, they create beautiful, happy worlds, on the other, they murder, steal, and have to power of a god to destroy a characters entire being.

    I think this is one reason why not everyone writes---why they say we have a muse. There is a lot of power, and thus responsibility, in creating words and deciding someone's ultimate outcome.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

I showed you mine -- it's your turn now.

Popular posts from this blog

The insecure writer's support group

The ground is important -- for several reasons.

Among them

Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.

I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.

Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?


Ask Alice

None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's…

Writers get laid

Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.

Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.

People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer  -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.

Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.

Or downloading unauth…

TOWANDA!

I am one dumb-luck happenstance away from a full-fledged nervous breakdown -- no kidding this time.

My back is pretty sturdy by now -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children, crazy family members (they're all nuts including me) -- I can carry a shit-ton of crap in my nifty ain't-life-swell backpack, but I'm no frickin' body builder. And it's not even big things that are pushing me over -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children ... it's the shit-storm of stupid people raining down on me like poops from Heaven.
The latest was a Florida couple--a mullet-sporting, NASCAR-loving twat and her top-heavy husband -- in a movie theater parking garage. I was so close to knocking their teeth down their throats -- that's assuming they had teeth -- I could taste blood.
For starters they came fishtailing into the garage and nearly plowed into a row of parked cars. They raced around the place like a couple of Earnhardt wannab…