Why I Like Writing Fight Scenes
When I lived in San Francisco I decided, on a whim, to take a self-defense course. I learned to be more aware of my surroundings, how to identify a potential threat, and how to defend myself when the situation started getting out of hand. It wasn’t Taekwondo or Jujitsu, but we learned how we could break away if we were grabbed, that the best defense for a woman is falling to the ground on purpose and kicking with everything you have. Learning to fall on purpose was not easy. My natural instinct was to stay on my feet at all costs. But sometimes those costs were too high, and you’re better off learning to kick from down under.
I’ve never had to use most of what I learned, except the keeping alert thing, but one morning I decided to walk the few blocks from where I lived in San Francisco’s Marina district to my favorite coffee/breakfast place. I was apparently paying hyper attention to my surroundings and forgot to watch my feet. I tripped on a jag in the sidewalk and fell. And rolled right back up to my feet, all in one smooth movement.
That I could fall, tuck, and roll without even a scraped elbow was exhilarating. I bounced all the way to the coffee shop on that high and ordered a great breakfast. Writing a good fight scene can give me that same sense of exhilaration when I get it right. When I fell, tucked and rolled back up I did it without thinking. Thinking would have gotten me hurt. Writing a fight scene, whether it’s quick and dirty and against a human like the one in the book I’m working on now (which I’ll share), or against nature, like climbing down a cliff face with a panicked baby Karda – twice – like in my first book (of the same name) takes a lot of thinking. But your character can’t be thinking, not in the moment, only later, or between fast clashes of action. It isn’t easy, because it can quickly become dull and ordinary. Yes, the action does have to be fast, but what makes it interesting is in the character’s anger, fear, terror, regret, exhilaration. With a flurry of sword strikes I chopped off his head and went to have breakfast doesn’t do it. It’s what I felt about myself, my antagonist, what it meant to me that was the reason for the exhilaration.
And the exhilaration when I’ve finished writing a good fight scene and what it meant to the character (not usually exhilaration) is as good as what I got when I tripped on that San Francisco sidewalk, tucked, rolled and popped back up. Well, almost as good.
Here’s a (first draft) excerpt from Chapter One of my next book from Scene One where Emily is standing in the middle of the famous silver Pedestrian Bridge in Chicago staring down at the traffic moving in and out below her.
“A flock of starlings arrowed straight at me from Maggie Daley Park. Dozens of black birds circled in a cloud close around my head, squawking harsh starling squawks. I threw my hands up over my face and stood very still, goose bumps skittered down my arms, the sound of their wings a roar in my ears. All I could move was my eyes. Wings brushed my shoulders and claws pulled at the strands of hair whipping around my face. Fear-sweat drops popped out on my forehead. The birds whirled around, with me inside their tight circle.
As suddenly as they came, they left, wheeling as one down and under the bridge out of my view. I stared after them through my spread fingers. It was as if they’d appeared from another world with a message then flew back. What their message was, I had no idea, but I shook all over.
“I see you.” I jumped at the gravelly voice almost in my ear, and a sudden hard, sharp shove from behind smashed me against the parapet. A hand grabbed my knee and lifted to flip me over and down into the swift and deadly river of traffic. Oh, god, I was going to die before I even had a chance at a new life.
I braced my hands, dropped all my weight to his grip, and pushed away from the edge of the wall. My other leg curled up and shot back, heel first, into a soft body part. I whirled. A small, wiry man stumbled back, bent over and sucking air. He stared at me. Surprise and hatred contorted his pointy features.
He growled those strange words again. “I see you.” For an instant he looked familiar, but his sharp face blurred. I blinked. Half in terror and half in disbelief, I braced for another attack, but three people rounded a turn and came into view. He ran toward them—and disappeared halfway down the walkway, as if he sprouted wings and jetted away at the speed of sound. He couldn’t have disappeared, but he did, swallowed by—nothing. The three people walked on as if they hadn’t seen him at all.
I slid down the slick parapet and collapsed on the wood surface, circled my arms around my knees, and pulled them close. I shook so hard I didn’t think I could stand. He’d looked at me with such intense hatred. He’d tried to kill me. I had no doubt about that, hard as my mind tried to deny it. Who was he, and what did his words mean—“I see you?” I’d seen the small man before somewhere, and not just once, but my head hurt, my body hurt, my sense of self hurt, and I couldn’t remember where.”
Did I practice what I preached in this scene? I’d love to know what you think.
