What are You Scared Of?
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What are you scared of?
What am I scared of?
Dogs.
I’ll tell you why in a mo.
But does there always have to be a why?
In Nicksgate, my work in progress, the main character is scared of the dark. I mean pants-wettingly panic-attack scared.
And I’ve given her no choice but to venture into the depths of a long-lost mine to save the world from an ancient evil.
I’m nice like that.
In the first draft of the novel, the fear stemmed from a historic sexual assault in a dilapidated bus shelter.
It never sat right with me. By the end of the second draft, it felt gimmicky; it felt like a device.
Above all, there’s enough violence against women in the world without me adding to that particular mountain of misery, so I cut it.
But why is she scared of the dark? I thought. There has to be something, doesn’t there?
‘No,’ said a writer friend (who had looked at parts of the draft and cheered my decision to cut the sexual assault). ‘There doesn’t always have to be a reason behind someone’s fear.’
‘I’m scared of spiders, but I wasn’t attacked by a daddy-long-legs in my cot,’ she said.
Fair.
But the more I got into the next draft, the more I felt like something was missing. I was struggling to believe in my protagonist’s fear.
I read elsewhere that the events in fiction don’t have to mirror real life. Dialogue doesn’t have to sound exactly how people speak to each other. A lot of books would be pretty boring otherwise.
Does every character need a tragic backstory?
No, but readers want to enjoy a story. They want to be entertained. Above all, readers have expectations.
Over the last twenty years or so, due to wars, terrorist attacks, the #MeToo movement, and Covid (among other depressing doozeys), there has been a growing interest in trauma.
Whether it’s a movie, a book or a TV series, people look for the wound: the reason behind a character’s fear or behaviour.
Maybe because they are desperately looking for explanations behind the problems in their own messed-up lives.
Hey, I’m definitely not a psychologist, but I know I’ve done the same when I’ve tried to explain the sorry way I turned out.
Audiences do want ‘realism,’ but they also want answers too. Human beings have always shared stories because—hopefully—the lessons you learned in them would keep you alive and help you thrive (or at least, cope).
No lesson = crap story.
And sometimes, the stories are true.
Dog Day Afternoon
One day, when I was seven, I was standing in a field near our village. We had come to hunt for mushrooms with my aunt and uncle. The grass was lush, the blackbirds in full voice, I’d just hooked a delicious booger from my nose yadayadayada.
This field was one big slope. My cousins were standing at the top with their dog, Ben, a Border Collie.
My dad often said that my aunt and uncle,
‘Made dogs daft.’
This pooch was no exception. The most patient of dog-lovers might describe him as ‘excitable.’
The less patient, a ‘hyperactive nut-job.’
I was just a nipper. I liked calling the dog. Having the power to summon a being and it actually respond was new and shiny (it wasn’t like my parents ever did when I called them, unless I was bleeding—a lot).
Unfortunately, I hadn’t realised what would happen when I called Ben’s name from my current position, about a hundred feet closer to sea level than he was.
I was yet to understand, y’know, physics.
Ben heard my shout and barreled down the slope like a pink-tongued tornado.
I froze. My underdeveloped brain sounded a warning klaxon. This was bad. Very bad. I focused on the binary mass of black and white hurtling towards me.
My consciousness processed one, zero, one, zero—
BANG.
Little JL was not so much wiped out as wiped clean; his remains mopped up and wrung out into a nearby rabbit hole.
From that moment on, I was nervous around dogs.
Whenever I called on my auntie, I’d have to steel myself. I’d knock on the door and cringe at the explosion of barks and shudder of the wood as Ben pogoed against it.
A jackhammer built to run on dog biscuits and speed.
Auntie Jean was always kind enough to remove the mad beast to another room before she let me in. She saw my wound. It was real.
So, my main character is going to have one too. It also provides the opportunity to write a delicious flashback scene involving a children’s birthday party and lots of screaming (from anguished parents).
Nicksgate is coming soon(ish).
Back onto our hairy friends, I wouldn’t say I’m anti-dog, but I was slightly disappointed when Korea announced a ban on dog-meat restaurants from 2027.
Although I never partook, I admit I encouraged others to enjoy bosintang (dog stew).
It was one way to reduce the canine population.
Koreans have always caught a bad rap over the whole dog-eating business. It is a minority pursuit, almost exclusively among the hal-a-bo-ji (grandfather) generation.
Apparently, the restaurants smell of wet dog. Mouthwatering.
Anyone under 50 in the country tends to get annoyed when it’s mentioned by foreign media.
Imagine how Americans would feel if the rest of the world assumed the standard sides with a Big Mac at a US McDonald’s were French fries and a bowl of Rocky Mountain oysters.
(Some) Koreans believe boshintang is good for men’s virility, or
‘Man… power up!’
As a taxi driver put it to me once, with the mandatory rude hand gesture, while I desperately motioned for him to please keep at least one hand on the wheel. No wonder I had to visit a heart hospital.
But you can’t halt the march of progress, and dog stew has now gone the way of sassafras and shark fin soup.
I guess Korean guys will have to rely on sweet potato pizzas and K-pop for future stimulation.
Not sure how that will go.
And the imminent closure of the restaurants means the series of promotional events I’ve designed for them will go to waste.
Dachshund Decapitation Disco.
Mince your own Maltese.
Saint Bernard Steamroll.
Okay, okay—I’ll stop.
How about you? Do you have a fear that stemmed from some—shareable—past incident? Or one that you just can’t explain? I’d love to know in the comments below.
I promise I won’t nick it and include it in a future story… probably.
JL
PS: For more writing tips born from the painful fires of my own experience, check out my five-part series that starts here.
PS: Did you once sell Prince Harry a discounted Taser and pepper spray combo? Learn how to turn the encounter into a rib-tickling tale by reading my Great Celebrity Anecdote post.
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