The Characters of Hate

Hating hate

I hate hate. Even when it manifests as righteous indignation, I feel sullied by hate. It takes way too much time and energy. The writers who are reading this probably already see the problem. What is fiction without hate? I must also state that I'm not talking about evil. Evil is not always hate or even hated. Evil is a force or state of mind that does harm to others, whether intentional or incidental. Evil often causes hate, but the two are not mutually dependent. So how do I give my characters hate when I find it so abhorrent? Yes, I could create a world without hate but most people would find that hard to accept. Or do I create a character who hates, but learns not to. Sound rather heavy-handed to me. Maybe I just need to accept that hate exists. It's what people expect. It's like real life.

The Plan

I've started writing to a new Twitter prompt for ten word stories. I'm writing these from a bad guy's point of view. A couple were pretty good. A couple were pretty wimpy for a bad guy. But, I'm having fun with it.

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100 Words – Bots

She wants to know how I'm doing today. She wants to know if I'm married. She says she lives in Houston and wants to know where I'm from. Always the same questions. Always the same answers. One virtual encounter after another. The only thing that changes are the sexy stock footage profile pix. What do you do for a living? What's your phone number? Are you horny? I again find myself flirting with bits of code. Maybe this one is real. No evidence points that way but it is not outside possibility. No, again, she's just another damn chat bot.  

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100 Words – Bottles

Smiley circled the house twice. The first to check for any unlocked doors or windows. The second because Martha was crying and she couldn't be convinced nothing was wrong. Back at the front door she was still crying so Smiley kicked the door in. He was as shocked as Martha when he succeeded on the first try. Grandpa sat in his easy chair as lifeless as the sitcom he was no longer watching. Smiley counted the empty beer bottles. Martha counted the empty pill bottles. Neither the police nor the ambulance guys cared about the bottles. "He was 97, right?"

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100 Words – highway of light

I drive the highway of light. One slight nudge of the wheel and I would be on the road to darkness. There are things down that road. Danger, drinking, sex and adventure. "Is it worth the risk?" I think as I continue down the road of light. I see forgotten faces reflected in the window to my right. The ghosts of my previous traveling companions. Which would encourage the darkness? Which would insist on the light? But I am alone. Their thoughts and prayers are meaningless now. Wasted on my battered soul. Darkness it is. I run out of gas.

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Are all writers mentally ill?

Yes, but first we need to define our terms. Perhaps mentally ill is a poor expression. Mentally abnormal seems more correct, though that seems to have even more negative connotations. Though in my nomenclature abnormal could be anything other than average. Therefore genius would be considered an abnormality.

I toyed with the idea of using the phrase mental nonconformity but that sounds like a choice so it’s not appropriate. Mental abnormality it is.

I should mention here that, if they were asked, nearly every writer I know would give you a laundry list of their abnormalities. My own would include; social anxiety, depression, over-thinking, insomnia, self-doubt and poor self-image.

So are there sane writers? No, but using my criteria, it would be hard to find any human who doesn’t have mental abnormalities. It’s just that writers are mentally abnormal out loud. Their problems are documented on an ongoing basis. Then they actively try to have other people participate in their anxieties.

This is the problem when you over-think everything. You talk yourself in circles till all semblance of an answer is rendered useless. So I’ll just say this; You have to be crazy to be a writer.

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100 Words – Lips

There was nothing left in her apartment but a blood-stained Twinkie. The cops on the scene laughed at me till the gray-haired detective showed up had them bag the Twinkie for the lab. Two days later the detective was at my door. It was llama blood. Jane's life, of which she shared with me so little, was wilder than I ever imagined. The police knew where she was. She was watching me. All I saw in the window was her lips. Crimson flesh I worshiped. The things those lips said and did to me. I would always be her slave.

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