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and-they-were-crewmates · 3 years

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Room For Three | Deleted Scenes

Hi friends! Have you read my fic Room For Three? If not, and you’re looking for Holden/Amos/Naomi fic, go check that out first, because it’s better than this.

The following are a few deleted scenes from Chapter 20. These scenes did not actually occur in the universe of the fic. They were deleted in part because they weren’t relevant to anything, so they added too much superfluous bulk to an already superfluous and bulky fic, and in part because I wasn’t very confident with my characterization of Camina’s family or the way I communicated their dialect. I do love the idea of giving Drummer some closure with Naomi, though I don’t think that Room For Three is the place to explore that concept. That being said, this was a fun little scene, so I’d like to share!

Very mildly NSFW text below. This is from a rated E fic, but is not explicitly sexual. CW recreational drug use (marijuana)

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” said Naomi into her hand terminal. The small window in the corner reflected her own image, alone in the room while Jim either finished up his therapy or got started on his way to lunch with Fred, and Amos journeyed to pick up food for the two of them. The larger window, the focus of her attention, showed Drummer’s full face and half of another woman’s, whose shoulder acted as a pillow for Camina’s tilted head. Her friend looked more at peace than Naomi had ever seen her.

“Nah, we insist. Whole crew will be happy to meet The Naomi Nagata. Plus, your Earther boys obviously need a lesson in family. Double date.”

“Is it still called a double date if there’s nine people at the table?”

“Nonuple date, then. Come. Josep good cook, Bertold good advice, Oksana good to look at,” she said. The body next to her stuck out an elbow in playful defense, and a loving giggle filled the speaker. “Good in bed, too,” Camina added to appease her, and they both laughed together.

“Alright, alright. I guess I’d rather get polyam lessons from you lot than from Jim’s eight parents.”

“Soyá. One Holden is more than enough for me.” Naomi didn’t say it, but she agreed. The Holden family was a lot to handle. She knew there might be a discussion with them in her future, in which she and Amos would undoubtedly have to stand under their mild-mannered scrutiny and well-meant condescension, but she hoped to put it off as long as possible.

“Be nice to him tonight,” Naomi implored, Camina rolled her eyes.

“To ta ge im, bosmang. I will try. No promises ‘bout Serge though. Discriminate, im does.”

“Ah, pashang fong, ‘Mina,” a man’s voice bellowed, the pejorative softened by his loving tone. His head appeared on Naomi’s device, upside down at the top of the frame. “Mi behave, promise.” They all three laughed together, a contagious sound that put a smile on Naomi’s face.

Camina’s family was as affectionate as it was functional, and any jealousy was squandered as soon as it sprouted through open networks of communication. They didn’t all sleep in the same bed, or all have sex at the same time, or spend every waking hour together, the six of them, but they loved each other equally just the same. They didn’t all keep score of their ‘wins’ and ‘losses’— surely Michio didn’t feel left out if Oksana got milkshakes with Josep one day, and Drummer didn’t pout if Serge chose to shower with Bertold instead of her. They found a balance together, where everyone was included, even in the moments when they weren’t. They’d be good role models.

“Alright, we’ll be there,” Naomi said, excitement written on her face. When the phone call was over, she turned her attention to the door. Amos was taking longer than anticipated. She supposed she’d have to find some way to occupy herself until he returned.

***

Josep’s cooking was so spicy that it felt like a targeted attack. Holden was the only one who seemed to notice— which only furthered his suspicions that it was a deliberate poisoning— though he knew he was just wimpier than anyone else in the room. Otherwise, Holden, Naomi, and Amos were welcomed warmly into Drummer’s home like members of the family.

They each had their own unique flavor of advice, ranging from categorically unhelpful to actually something to think about, spoken in different degrees of broken English or part-English part-Belter. Holden appreciated the great effort they went to to be understood by him. They probably had very little use for pure English in their day-to-day lives, and the grammar of Lang Belta was very different, more efficient. It made some of their translations a little hard for Holden to process, but if they could make the effort, so could he.

“Da pashang gut?” Serge asked. In the time it took Holden to decide if he was comfortable answering whether they had good sex, Amos and Naomi had already given their yesses. “Gut. The rest figure itself out.”

“That’s terrible advice,” interjected Michio.

“Work for me an’ Josep this morning,” he shrugged. “Take too long in shower. Mi angry. Join him in shower, mi na so angry.” Michio rolled her eyes.

“It’s not about sex,” she said. “You can have good sex and no love for each other.”

“Like in Camina dream about Holden,” Serge contributed. Holden didn’t know what to do with that information. Naomi seemed to like it.

“I’ve had that dream,” Amos added. Holden elbowed him.

“Sure, like that,” dismissed Michio. “It’s not about sex; it’s about trust. You trust your family will never hurt you on purpose?” she asked. The three of them nodded. “You forgive your family when they make a mistake?” she asked. They nodded. “Then you can forgive your family for anything.” That was pretty solid advice, but nothing Holden didn’t already know. They were good at forgiving each other. Had practice.

“How do you keep everything…” Holden searched for the word, “...equal?”

“Equal? Who cares equal?” replied Bertold. “Not equal. Camina in charge. Like Naomi for you.”

“Naomi’s not—” Holden said, then backed down. It was true enough.

“Ya. No need for equal.”

“Is there ever jealousy? Like, if you spend more time with one person than another.” A couple of them, including Amos, looked at him like that was the stupidest question ever asked.

“That’s baby shit, kopeng,” Bertold said. “Need comfort, ask Oksana. Need tough love, ask Camina. Need fix problem, ask Michio. Need laugh, ask Josep. Need blow job, ask Serge.”

“Hey,” Serge defended. “I’m funny, too.”

“Ya, baby,” Bertold consoled. “I just simplify for explain. Different for others, or depend on the day. Point is, na equal. Need comfort four time, tough love one, then go Oksana four time, Camina one. ‘Mina no cry ‘bout it. Because adult. Knows mi love im the same.” Drummer smiled at him. Holden had never seen Drummer smile as bright or as often as he had that night. “End of day, eat dinner as family, go bed happy.”

“Huh,” said Holden. “That… makes a lot of sense, thank you.”

“Try not to think so hard, Jimmy,” said Drummer. “Have some cake. Not so spicy.”

“Gee, thanks.”

***

The third or fourth time it was passed to her, Naomi took another long, luxurious puff off of Drummer’s vaporizer. She tried to pass it behind her to Jim (whose lap she didn’t think she’d been sitting in when Camina first pulled out the device) but he declined as always. Naomi presumed the captain was afraid of what slutty business he might get up to under the influence of high-grade synthetic cannabis in a room full of incredibly hot people. She couldn’t blame him, but it wouldn’t stop her from having a good time. Amos also clearly had no such reservations.

“So,” he said between two smaller puffs (Earthers with their puff, puff, pass bullshit), “what’s the sex like?”

“Amos, you can’t just ask people that,” Jim scolded. In rebuttal, Amos took his second puff and blew it in Jim’s face. Soberly, Naomi might’ve been on Jim’s side of that argument, but she was high and curious. Amos looked at Serge, who seemed the most likely to answer the question rather than flip him off.

“All six of you screw together, or is it a Noah’s Ark kinda deal?” Amos asked. Serge shrugged.

“Sometimes all six, sometimes three, sometimes two,” he said.

“Maybe sometimes nine,” added Josep lewdly, eyeing the three guests. Amos smiled salaciously, while scattered laughter filled the room. Camina cleared her throat and shook her head.

“What did I say?” she chided.

“Dinner, not orgy,” Josep said.

“Don’t see why it can’t be both,” said Amos. Jim elbowed him.

As her Earther lovers mingled with her Belter friends, new and old, Naomi felt a sense of wholeness. Her worlds were colliding— this time in a harmonious way, not an explosive one. She didn’t know if it was the THC in her lungs or the love in her life, but she was on top of the world.

Michio was teaching Amos and Jim an old Belter card game when Naomi was overcome with a powerful urge to speak privately with Camina. Several faces quirked suggestively as she pulled her friend from the mass of cuddling bodies on the living room floor. Apparently Amos wasn’t the only one with preconceived notions about their friendship. She ignored them and guided Camina into the next room, which only happened to be the bedroom.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy, Camina,” she said once they were in another room. Camina hummed and nodded, the corners of her mouth quirking up into a small smile. The weed seemed to unburden her considerably, though a deeper happiness radiated from her even before they’d smoked. Her hair was down, and it felt to Naomi like a metaphor.

“Don’t think I ever have been,” she said. Naomi took her hand and squeezed it, beaming with pride. Camina’s expression soured almost imperceptibly; her smile was still present, though it spoke of an old, tired sadness, or perhaps just a more reluctant version of joy. “Spent a long time wanting something I could not have.” She looked Naomi up and down, and the message was heard loud and clear. That bitter-sweet smile. The harbinger of closure.

“Ended up with something better, no?”

“Think so,” Camina answered. Her eyes widened as she asked, and there was a youthfulness in her face that Naomi hadn’t seen before, like a child seeking approval. Naomi didn’t think Camina needed her approval, but she gave it readily.

“I know so. Oksana looks at you like you painted the stars in the sky. You deserve that.”

“Same way Jimmy looks at you.”

“Same way Amos looks at my boobs,” Naomi countered. They both laughed. “You deserve to be happy, Camina Drummer. Are you?”

“Ya, Naomi Nagata. Have everything I ever wanted, and more. Could not have imagined having something this good until it happened.”

“I know what you mean,” Naomi said wistfully, thinking of Amos and Jim.

“You happy, too?” Camina asked.

“Ya,” answered Naomi, easily and honestly. Have everything I ever wanted, and more. “Mi xush.” Naomi pressed her forehead to Camina’s, and they shared their happiness together for a moment.

“Gut.”

“So... what’s this dream you had about Jim?”

“Oh hush.”

***

“You think they’re fooling around?” Amos asked the group of people whose names he didn’t know. Holden elbowed him for the third time that night. “Bug, at some point, you’re gonna have to realize jabbing me in the ribs ain’t gonna stop me from sayin’ shit.”

“What will?” Holden asked. Amos didn’t answer, just pointed his eyes down at Holden’s crotch, and figured he got the message when he received yet another nudge to his side. He laughed, took his turn in the card game, and hit the vape when it came around again.

“Could I ask you something, big man?” asked the guy with the triangle tattoos beside his eyes. Amos shrugged his permission. The guy took a second to say anything else, like he was trying to word his question. He whispered something to the man at his side.

“Ah,” the second man said, “wants to know if you have Earther cock.” Amos didn’t know what that meant. “You know, like…” he gave an inscrutable gesture, like jerking off, but not quite. “No skin.”

“Josep,” came a scolding female voice. Amos didn’t mind.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m circumcised.” The two men, one of whom must’ve been Josep, not that Amos would retain that information, seemed fascinated by that. He was about to ask if they wanted to see it when Naomi and her girlfriend came back. Another time, then.

#my ficlet #my fic #deleted scene

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crackcrocs · 3 years

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DEATH WILL ONLY BE THE BEGINNING #9

This is to narcissistic mothers/ parents & anyone who is willing to understand.

(Written by me-for and through the lens of my dear friend, i wish you nothing but freedom from her chains. i wish you TLC)

Their ability to make everyone think they’re loving parents.

Their ability to make their kids believe that abuse is normal.

Their ability to make you believe you owe them everything.

Their ability to make themselves believe that they are right.

Their ability to turn the tables and make you believe that it was your fault.

All of this rings so true.

They do make you feel crazy; they suck the energy and ability to reason logically right out of you- and, by very nature of their narcissism, it never occurs to them that *they* might be the problem.

You can’t expect a relationship to happen with someone highly dysfunctional. how do you stoop down to the level of someone who aside from work & put all energy into keeping up an appearance can only abuse substance, speak to empty friends & post garbage.

In truth, I think the alcoholism is a symptom of her larger mental illness or narcissistic personality disorder- but it’s no excuse. Her parenting is unreliable, inconsistent, and unpredictable. There never is a sense of safety and consistency, allowing me to thrive.

I’m told to forgive & keep peace & ignore all your craziness. All the advice I've been getting on dealing with a narcissistic mother has been saying to avoid her as much as possible, or to try communicate & ‘keep peace’ as if I haven’t tried to communicate, as if I’m purposely singling her out from our already empty relationship. Well now I'm stuck at home all day, or every household or friend I bring over, she decides to involve. So much for distancing myself. The worst part is she isn't even doing it herself, she just sits around watching tv, having friends over & phoning everyone while Im expected to clean up after her and "contribute" to the family/ financially support my self for college.

- Yes, absolutely, I am the crazy one. You know what, I’m not even going to deny it, I probably have a ton of issues, most of them mental. But guess where they came from? Guess who made those problems worse and maybe even helped create them? No mom, you’re not to blame for everything or the “war in Iraq” as you so eloquently put it. But you are to blame for some it, at the very least. it’s time to take account & I will no longer be made to feel like the obligated for for an entitled narc.

I feel your claws sinking in less and less. You no longer have me in chains, I will break free from your emotional bondage even if it takes me seeming boring & silencing myself around you to not endure & tolerate your nonsense. Your words no longer fill me with despair like they once did.

This year long cold shoulder would have once filled me with anxiety but now all I feel is bliss. I no longer feel jealous when others talk about their seemingly perfect parents because I may not have that luxury but what I do have is a chance to be a "perfect parent" myself potentially one day. To be everything you couldn't and wouldn't somewhere far away and isolated from your poison.

I wonder how you feel... but I simply can’t understand or pretend to care anymore. I’m tired of putting energy into a source that doesn’t put out. When children don't talk to you unless prompted- it’s because there is nothing to be said after the plenty opportunities given to converse truly & openly.

No I don’t want to speak to your 9th friend on the phone today again about surface level things just to please you. No I don’t want to come socialise with your drunk friends & be spoken to like a child

When you have to tell yet another lie to yet another friend to mask the evidence of a broken home When you look in the mirror and only see insecurities When you realise there's no one around you and can't figure out why When you tear down someone close yet again, to feel good about yourself I wonder how you feel, I wonder if you feel, I wonder if you can...

my mom pushes me away but doesnt wanna let me leave. she doesn’t want to take into account that she pushed me to this extent. part of growth is being able to communicate your emotions properly. how can a whole 43 year old be unable to do so? I Vocalize when I’m not okay with something. Communication helps people avoid being uncomfortable, easily triggered, hostile, or passive aggressive with people. her communication is one sided and I’m the only one who gets to listen while she’s the only one who gets to talk, otherwise I’m ‘answering back’ or ‘telling a woman what to do’ even though I talk sense and out of respect in my responses or when I do try speak.

Worse yet I have to go BACK to the emotionally abusive situation that I basically fled.

What really bugs me is when you’ve given someone so many chances to do better and change. But then once you get tired of their antics, you try to move on and they continually try to reel you back in. Not even trying to change, but instead *trying* to reel you back in for their benefit. It’s unhealthy and traumatizing to say the least.

I guess i should be glad your swinging moods and emotions taught me to manage mine from young. I should be glad that I had to teach myself not to care about what you said to me and what you thought about me. I should be overjoyed that the side effect was me not caring about what anyone said or thought and basically becoming an inert emotionless void. I should be thankful that I always look fine even when I’m in pain and feeling like death and I’m capable of putting up with things that would send any sane person off the edge.

relationships are so much healthier when the goal is to experience life together and not to try to make the person into who you want them to be or to make them do what you want them to do. In my case my mother has de masculated me over the years making me soft and obedient, for her own selfish gain of having a man worship her. she decided since she doesn’t have a man, or never managed to find someone stay at home that’s he truly connected to, she’s decided the man that’s going to worship her will be me- her son. Since I resemble my father who she was in love with, she will always talk bad on me as she resents my father for not wanting her.

through gaslighting me over the years, it’s become harder to speak up, I even feel embarrassed to tell my dad even though that’s probably the only thing that will make her open her eyes and get clean. my pot is boiling though. Independence is obviously healthy but when it gets to the point where i find it challenging to actually be able to even admit that i might need assistance in this situation, problems arise. And for what? Why I’m I protecting her image? I’ve been taught to & I’m a respectable young man who won’t take joy from her exposure, but I don’t take joy from preserving information & keeping it all inside to deal with myself. I’ve become so hard on myself and still pushing through-it’s not easy, people still expect me to be a super heroe all the time. I have a hard time opening up, allowing people to help me in whatever I’m doing. I hate even admitting I need help most times. I wish I’d been taught early what my mother learned late, thankfully I was observant, self taught & still willing to learn- thankfully I’m not a follower & I know right from wrong.

The worst part about looking at the future and trying to imagine it full of hope, light and emotional health is knowing that you'll always have the scars. Emotional abusers aren't supposed to leave scars but mine managed to. And in my mother's usual style it can even be passed off as unintentional. In my case it was actually supposed to a kind act which ended badly in the way that only events in my life can seem to end.

All the phone calls to your friends, you continuously fake talk about me on a nonexistent relationship. it’s sad how you need to phone 100 people in a day and can only hold the same surface level chats. I wonder if you can grip the fact that nobody ever wants to help you with anything. you’re lucky they even listen and you’re lucky they only know your side of the story every time. you’re a great potter & can mould situations.

It’s sad that if you sense the slightest hint that people do not approve of your estrangement and they are not going to be there for your nonsense, you stir the pot and involve and buss peoples names, further spinning your web of lies.

All the pity you came to relish over the years as single mother warrior extraordinaire would simply dry up. Any attempts to paint me, your only child in a negative light would seem simply monstrous if I exposed you, but I maintain respect, bite my tongue & hold my head up because my real mother figure taught me that.

But really you have to keep up the pretense to your friends, that I was an insubordinate, ungrateful bitch of a problem child and you were a glorious brave single mother at her wits end just trying to make things work. even with the mural I painted, you forced me to mention the single mother narrative; as if that had anything to do with my art piece. I mean how selfish can you be? the art peace was to represent Sheku Bayou & the BLM movement, I didn’t even want to put my real name- I wanted to put my instagram page associated with my art because business is business and personal is personal. but to toot your horn, I added a whole separate paragraph because you wanted your name to be connected to my art piece as though I’m some sort of celebrity and it was my claim to fame. the single mother narrative is bullshit, I know tonnes of single african parents that know how to step up when it’s time to be a mother, but that’s something you’ve never known how to do. I remember you drunk the day I came here and I will never forget the words ‘I will drink myself to death if I want to’ I don’t have sympathy anymore and I’m not a saviour, I have tried and tried through hiding alcohol, attempting to converse & get her to cut down; but you can only bring a horse to the water not to drink it. how is a teenager meant to know how to stop an alcoholic junkie? I’m her son you say? If she truly cared and wanted to fix up, I would be one thing to stop her I thought.

my mother is an alcoholic. an addict. she refuses to wear those labels, but this has far exceeded the occasional ‘binge’ ‘sesh’ or ‘Prosecco party’ .Throughout middle school and high school, I would guess that half or so of the days out of the year she spent in a wine haze. Even my constant begging her to stop drinking did not stop it. Pouring her wine down the drain or hiding it made her angry and transitioned to mental and phsyical abuse. She became increasingly angry and I aged and entered high school but she was always this way since I came really. It was during this time that I would lock the doors to my room and try to hide from her in there. I still barricade my room door to this day just for my own peace. Despite all the horrendous things she did, every once in a while she did give me money, and this gets dangled over my head RELENTLESSLY... as if money buys love.

I needed to get some outside reassurance that I'm sane. Thankfully now I know and all I can do is try stay in my lane, can’t argue with a supposed adult with a brain that resembles a wall or a child.

People who were emotionally abused have spent far too long defending themselves. Justifying their own feelings. Trying to make others see and understand what they went through is a task. Abusive parents are very good at manipulating. that’s why I have ceased contact with this toxic person, i do not owe anyone an explanation.Doesn’t matter if they are a family member or close family friend. Doesn’t matter if they are a friend or acquaintance of yours. I’ve learned just to be boring , save everything interesting and beautiful about myself for those who deserve it.

#LCZABIBU #deathwillonlybethebeginning

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bewareofchris · 6 years

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“angry characters”

here’s part 2 of how many ever unasked for writing advice posts. as always these are only the things I’ve learned throughout my career as a non-professional artist and like all creative-based advice is barely worth the internet space it’s written on.

What is Anger?

it is generally thought of as a bad emotion

most human beings do not enjoy anger. this doesn’t mean it’s not useful. it just means it’s not necessarily a good emotion

as we see in many forms of media, anger is very good at fueling bad choices and is therefore great to get your characters into bullshit situations.

Why Is Anger?

ignore the grammar

as a general rule human beings are angry for some reason. maybe they got a bad haircut, maybe they have a migraine, maybe their parents divorced when they were eight years old and the subsequent decade of family drama has drained them of good will. there’s always a reason.

THERE IS ALWAYS A REASON

even if that reason is they’re the devil’s spawn

even if that reason is there’s some kind of mental health issue that needs resolving

even if that reason is they’re a giant green rage monster there is ALWAYS A REASON.

even “waking up on the wrong side of the bed” is a reason. not a good one, but it is one.

This doesn’t mean your character has to know why they are angry but you do. You’re the Writer, aka God, and you need to know

How is Anger (written/expressed)?

anger expresses itself different based on who is angry, why they are angry and what they are presently doing. as fun as violence, shouting and being rude to people are, there are other ways of expressing your anger

crying, for instance. listening to loud music. cleaning the house. sitting quietly contemplating how to successfully murder the entire household. cooking an entire six course meal from scratch. manual labor. breaking things. getting together with your pals to start some shit. starting some shit on your own.

anger is not always destructive; but if it is, do not cheapen the destructiveness of that anger by being like “And everyone forgave her for breaking their windows because when she went to Taco Bell all the doritos tacos were gone and that is upsetting” because no.

I mean seriously. No

anger can be constructive, it can assist your character in their accomplishments, fuel their revenge, etc, etc. But this is STILL EMOTIONALLY DRAINING it doesn’t matter that you climbed that mountain because when you get to the top you’re going to be just very, very tired. So fucking tired.

Anger has physical, emotional. social and sometimes financial consequences. don’t forget these.

DON’T FORGET THE CONSEQUENCES.

pointlessly rude, physically violent, constantly misanthropic people either have extremely limited genuine friends, or no genuine friends. they may bully, intimidate, guilt or otherwise control people into being their friend/sticking by them but those people aren’t there because they’re enjoying it. This will express itself in the dynamics around this friend.

being around an Constantly or Quick-to-Anger person will likely be stressful for everyone. this needs to show.

I’m not saying angry people don’t have friends. because you can experience anger and have friends. But you can’t express your seething hatred of all things on the planet without losing friends.

its important to note that if your character expresses no emotion at all except anger they probably won’t be interesting and/or it will undercut the depth and meaningfulness of their anger. give the poor soul a break, let them experience other emotions too.

When is Anger?

that really depends on where the anger is coming from

at innocent retail workers primarily

when something has caused a disruption in day to day life

when a disappointment is experienced

when they are in pain

when something Unfair or Injust has happened

if your character is killing a man for what amounts to a minor inconvenience you are writing a serial killer. if your character blows up when something relatively small does not go as expected you are writing someone that needs anger management

if your character flips their shit when given new information that is distressing but not necessarily life altering they need to work on self control

if you’re writing someone who destroys other people’s property when upset, that’s not brave or hip or cool, it’s illegal and this person needs to learn self-control

anger is most commonly expressed in high-stress situations, in the privacy of your own life, or it is internalized. if someone is having a brawl in the walmart produce section at two in the afternoon on a thursday they either are having a record bad day, they are abusive human beings or their parents never taught them how to deal with frustration.

internalized anger is not invisible. very often it’s noticeable to other people who may ask about it or may just avoid the situation. but it is usually noticeable.

Who Is Anger?

a brief list of your common angry types (of characters)

“quick to anger” people experience anger in a lack of self-control sort of way. this is an overreaction, which means that they will overreact in many facets of their life. they won’t be perfect saints and then you burnt their toast and they’re cutting off one of your arms screaming about how you don’t deserve to live. this lack of control will have other effects on their life. (they can’t budget, they over party, they over-this they over-that.)

the slow-burning, always-angry sort generally do not express their anger in ways you’d expect. while they may explode, they are generally used to this feeling of anger and they know how to channel it into useful things and/or control it. you could even make a version of this where the person who is constantly angry presents as very kind and helpful because they are afraid to express their anger. (think of bruce banner, for instance. he’s a fairly nice guy.) you can also make this person a mass shooter, a future serial killer, etc. also they can be manipulated through their anger if they meet someone who is like that really steams my peas too, my dude.

the Teenager (tm) angry child/angry man child is someone who is angry in a showy, elaborate, stupid way for attention and i can’t stand them so I try never to write them but do your best as a writer not to light them on fire.

Self-Destructive anger seems pretty self-explanatory but it’s not all razor blades and loud music. (You can also not eat, not make friends, sabotage yourself at work, engage in risky or reckless behavior, obsessively clean or not clean at all, etc, etc, etc) IT’S IMPORTANT TO KNOW, self-destructive anger does not actually have to be the character’s own fault. you can have self-destructive anger even if you literally did nothing wrong. So it’s not like I don’t deserve happiness because I cheated on my third grade reading test Im doomed to an unhappy life. Woe. Sometimes its stress-induced, sometimes it’s mental health issue, etc, etc.

The “Can I Speak to a Manager” retail devil customer anger is most likely someone that feels they are owed more than they get in every single situation conceivable and this WILL manifest itself with the same level of entitlement and condescension in every aspect of their life. While they likely won’t be serial killers you would also one hundred percent believe it if someone told you they killed and ate their entire family for spilling kool-aid on their shirts on picture day.

Angry Dudes are so far from interesting I’m not even sure why people keep putting them in fiction, but assume you’re writing ye old average white guy that throws tantrums and beats people up. This mans needs to be arrested, put on trial and put in jail. He won’t be because he’s the Universal Protagonist, but he should be.

I have more but this has gotten super long so I’ll stop here.

#on writing #the angry ones

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