Of Guns and Zombies

I'm the girl who moved the ouija board.

You know who I mean. When asking the ouija board questions as kids, someone would invariably move that planchette to spell out answers from the great beyond.

Well, it was me.

It was no fun sitting there asking questions of the spirit world and receiving no reply. Somebody had to do it. And there was no point in doing it if you were going to admit it.

I'm also the girl who would survive a zombie attack. In those "would you survive the zombie apocalypse?" quizzes (you know you've taken them), I apparently know just how to kick some zombie ass. I'm a survivor.

Just like with a ouija board, the key is a certain degree of detachment. You can't worry about deceiving your friends -- after all, they're having more fun than they would have been staring at a ouija board that refused to move. And when asked in the zombie quiz if you'd stay behind with a friend who's just been bitten by a zombie who's sure to turn into one herself in a few minutes -- the obvious answer is NO. Be real; you can't save her.

What? You say the zombies in the zombie quizzes aren't real? Okay, I'll grant you that.

Here's how I learned to fight zombies in the real world -- with a gun:

Oh yes, that's my handiwork in that zombie's chest
(although I'm pretty sure I was aiming for his head)

Until a few years ago, I'd never shot a gun in my life. Being a mystery writer and all, I figured I should give it a try.

When members of a local writers' group arranged a trip to a nearby shooting range, I jumped at the chance.

We had to sit through an hour-long training before we got to shoot. (Our teacher was such a character that I need to write him into a book at some point, or at least write a blog post about him, but he deserves a post of his own so I'll save that for another day.)

After the training, we picked out our guns. It was an odd feeling at first, but as soon as I got the hang of it -- holding the guns with both hands to steady myself from the recoil -- it was a blast.

We got to pick out our own target as well. The zombie was the perfect pick. Much more practical than the black bullseye roughly shaped like the blob of a man. When is that situation of a walking bullseye ever going to come up in real life? But a zombie on the other hand...

--Gigi

Martha's Five Favorite Movie Weapons

Call me old fashioned, but sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. So let's focus back on those sticks and stones, shall we?

In real life, weapons have to be practical because if you're trying to defend your own life or take someone else's, you're focused on the goal, not the journey. But in movies, ah, in movies, we can have fun.

Movies have yielded many iconic weapons. The light saber. The phaser. Again, call me old-fashioned, but I like my killing machines a little less geek chic which brings me to my five favorite movie weapons of all time.

5. The Fifth Element's ZF Gun because it literally is the all-in-one weapon of choice.



4. The Indiana Jones' gun because it gets to the point.



3. Evil Dead 2's Chainsaw because when it's a trick, nothing else will do. (Except maybe an axe.)



2. Swords in Kill Bill for being the most beautiful, elegant way to off someone.





1. Bruce Willis as John McClane in the Die Hard series. Cuz duh. Enjoy this musical tribute to my favorite human weapon.

Words as Weapons

by Lisa Hughey


Karate kicks, Knockout blows, Throwing stars, Blackjacks, Knives, Handguns, Rifles, Bombs, Dirty Bombs.... I’ve researched most of these “weapons” at one time or another for my work.



My characters have carried Ka-Bar combat knives, AK-101 compact assault rifles, and Beretta 92-G Italian pistols.








But those are just details. When it comes down to it--the weapons that inflict the most damage are words. And beneath the words, sub-text, unspoken words convey thoughts and feelings that layer every character’s black moment with tension and heartache. The more devastating the weapon, the more satisfying the happy ending.





Nearly kill a character with a bullet...eh, they’ll recover. But mortally wound them with words...and they, and the reader, won’t ever be the same.


Lisa



ps-on a more important note: a huge thanks to all the men and women serving in the military around the world, you are not forgotten and always appreciated.

Forearmed Safety Buffaloes

L.G.C. Smith

I used to assiduously research the weapons my characters used. I'd pick out each one's gun/bow/knife/what-have-you of choice and create a backstory as to why that particular weapon suited them to a T. Not that I was foolish enough to include much, if any, of that information in my novels. But I knew. I have the expensive books on firearms to prove it.

Before the drill.

Now I worry more about how well I'm getting the emotional arsenal down. Figuring out the weaponry specifics is one of those things I leave for stuck times when I need a book-related procrastination activity. And I have a cupcake tree full of gluten-free banana muffins.

Trouble is, I'm not naturally into weapons. If I'm reading someone else's book, I don't mind if there are tons of deets on them. It can be a nice addition to the setting. If the author is skilled, she'll make those details add to character, emotional build-up and conflict. But if the conflict is already solid and the emotional and sexual weapons well-employed, the word 'gun' can be as effective as 'blah-blah-beretta-bladdy-special. '

That's a weapon? In the right hands...maybe.

No, my favorite kinds of weapons aren't sharp and they don't explode. They invoke the old scouting motto "Be Prepared."

I come from a family of Safety Buffaloes. The term originated in National Lampoon in the mid-1970s. I heard it when my husband called me one the first time I refused to start the car until he fastened his seat belt. Ah. Courting rituals. I thought it was pretty clever, what with my family coming from South Dakota and my mom's Uncle Harry having a buffalo herd and all. Then I realized not only was he mocking my highly prized cautious nature, but he'd stolen the term from P.J.O'Rourke. Bah.

Step away from the lantern.

Whatever. Guess what us Safety Buffaloes did for the Fourth of July this year? We had an earthquake drill! We got out as much of our survival/camping gear as we could find without getting into the attics (too hot), set it all up in the backyard, and made sure someone amongst us knew how to use the various items. My dad made sure we had the appropriate fuel for the lanterns and the stove, and that we gave adequate thought to where to locate the latrine. We checked that the flashlights all had fresh batteries, and my sister, JPW, showed off a new hand-cranked flashlight/radio combo thing. Neato.

We staged our pretend quake at 3 PM, and taught the Leezlet how to get under heavy tables or into the sturdiest part of my sister's house. We know exactly where this is because four years ago during the extensive remodel, we paid close attention. Once the shaking stopped, we taught the Leezlet to assess the surroundings for immediate dangers like broken glass or heavy, precarious items that might fall on someone. She, in true Safety Buffalo fashion, was totally into this. "What about broken pipes?" she asked. "Or big splinters?" My sisters and I beamed proudly.

Break time. Earthquake drills are hard work.

Next we made sure the gas was off, filled the bathtub with water while there was still pressure, and checked everyone for injuries. JPW called her husband in San Francisco to ask if the Golden Gate Bridge was okay. It wasn't. We all called my brother in Texas to check in. The Leezlet got to perform first aid on the wounded. She put a big Barbie band-aid on Uncle Bob's forehead, which he wore all afternoon and evening, not realizing it was pink and sparkly. He went to Walgreens with it. Heehee. Grandpa had a cut on his calf, Auntie JPW had a sprained wrist, and the Leezlet's daddy had a doozy of a conk on the head. Otherwise, all of us, cats and dogs included, came through in good enough shape to roast sausages for dinner, followed by s'mores. Then the braver souls slept in the tent. (Not me.)

Some of the campers.

As weapons go, being prepared may not be the sexiest cannon in the castle, but it's practical. In both real life and fiction, practical can be desirable. Folks who are good with conventional weapons can be much more interesting and formidable if they're also good at assessing their surroundings and responding with ingenuity and flexibility. In real life, some may mock Safety Buffaloes as being a bit dull, but we have fun developing our own quietly pragmatic weapons skills. A new generation of Buffs learned to make s'mores last night, after all, which means she now has a proper understanding of the lethal properties of molten marshmallows. That might come in handy some day.

Junior Safety Buffalo chillin' after practice for the Big One.

Don't Shoot! I'm in the Bathroom.

Welcome today's guest blogger, Boyd Morrison, whose debut thriller, THE ARK, was released in May.

Boyd is a Seattle-based author, actor, engineer, and Jeopardy! champion. He started his career at Johnson Space Center, where he got the opportunity to fly on NASA’s Vomit Comet, the same plane used to train astronauts for zero gravity. He went on to earn a PhD from Virginia Tech, then used his training to develop eleven US patents at RCA and manage a video game testing group at Microsoft before becoming a full-time writer. When he’s not working on his novels, Boyd acts in stage plays and independent films. His hardcover debut thriller, THE ARK, was released in May, and translation rights for THE ARK have been sold in eighteen foreign markets.

I have shot thousands of people in my life. Many of them were my friends. However, they don't hold it against me. In fact, they were expecting it.

My extensive weapons training has prepared me for a career as a thriller writer. But I wasn't a cop, spy, soldier, or assassin (as far as you know). I got all of that experience playing video games.

Before I became a full-time novelist, I worked in the Microsoft Xbox division as a user testing manager. We would bring consumers in to play the games we were developing to find out where players would get frustrated or stop having fun. And as part of my job, I had to play through the games so that I would know how to design the tests. Yes, I got paid to play games.

Not that you have to pay me to play. I've been a fan of video games since my dad got me the first Pong home game. At the time, we were amazed at the sophistication of using two rectangles to bat a dot back and forth across the screen. It's been a long journey to the point where we are now, in which players are disappointed if the blood splatter isn't realistic enough when you blast someone in Grand Theft Auto.

One of my favorite games is the Call of Duty series, which you can play online with other people. In the latest installment of this first-person shooter (as the genre is called), you take the role of a soldier fighting with the latest modern weaponry. The developers of Call of Duty have put thousands of hours into researching the dozens of real pistols, assault rifles, shotguns, and sniper rifles used in the game. The guns sound and operate exactly like they do in real life. You can even feel the difference in the recoil with the vibrating controller (FYI, if you enter the word “vibrating” into Google to get more information, “controller” is not the next word Google suggests).

When I was with Microsoft and playing these games at home, it gave me a ready-made excuse when my wife would ask me to do chores.

“Honey, I can't take out the garbage right now!” I would say, never taking my eyes off the screen. “Can't you see I'm working?”

Now that I'm writing novels, my excuse is still intact. I view all of those hours in front of the television as valuable research. My debut thriller, The Ark, features a lot of gunfights. That happens when a madman is trying to destroy civilization and rebuild it in his own diabolical vision. Luckily, the hero, Tyler Locke, is a former army combat engineer with plenty of weapons training. He may not like being shot at, but at least he knows how to return fire.

I, on the other hand, have never been in a real gunfight, nor would I really care to be, mainly because of the whole fear-of-death aspect. In my virtual Call of Duty gunfights, about the most dangerous thing I ever do is hurdle a chair on my way back from the bathroom so that I return in time for the start of the next game.

I have shot real guns as research for my books. At the gun range I've emptied a few magazines into paper targets so I could accurately convey what it's like to fire a .22 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver (“plink”) and a .50 caliber Desert Eagle semiautomatic (“BOOM!”). But unless you're in a Stephen King novel, the paper targets don't shoot back, and there are only so many different types of guns you can try out in real life. I recommend video games to help you fill in the gaps.

So if you're writing about a hit man and want to know how if feels to shoot someone with a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle from three hundred yards, try aiming at one of your friends. I can tell you from personal experience that headshots are the most rewarding.

Weapons of Mass Seduction

Weapons...hmm.

I feel as though I should have strong opinions about weapons. My (macho military) father gave me my very own rifle at the tender age of eight (a .22, which I used to shoot soda cans off the branches of a fallen tree.)

Then I came of age in the Bay Area, went to college in Santa Cruz, and realized weapons were a no-no...whether one is shooting recyclable cans or something decidedly more sinister.

Still, given the nearly pathological absence of common ground upon which to base an actual conversation with my loving and devoted father, I have often accompanied him out to the shooting range so we could bond over the relative merits of his Glock .40 versus the nine millimeter.

But I don’t really care that much, one way or the other, about weapons. Not the way my cousin, for example, sought the perfect butterfly switchblade knife, dragging me in and out of Oakland pawnshops and the back doors of dimly-lit Chinatown shops. Not the way my father lovingly dismantles, cleans, and oils his pistols and revolvers. Not the way my childhood friend Markie Bartle clambered over bombers at the Moffett Field expo, wanting to know precisely how many people each weapon could kill, and how quickly.

My reaction isn’t only yuck…it’s also *snooze*. I just don’t much care.

But seduction…that’s a horse of a different color. And seduction wielded like a weapon? Even better.

After all, what would the mystery genre be without weapons of seduction? Noir would be flat, thrillers would flail, suspense would lose its compelling edge. So in the interest of fiction, I’d like to start the discussion of Weapons of Mass Seduction.

Anything come to mind?

When it comes to standard hetero male-female relationships, I'll list a few no-brainers.

*Disclaimer: in my experience, the following list applies to most men. There are always exceptions, and they are notable.* But by and large, the hetero males of our species are remarkably vulnerable when it comes to certain weapons of seduction:

Corsets – We talked about these previously on the Pens, but they're worth another mention. (I received several private messages from male colleagues/blog readers that week...just sayin')

Stockings – Thigh highs. Garters or no. ‘nuff said.

High heels --Pain-inducing, crippling footwear...a powerful weapon, indeed.

Cleavage – Apparently there are men who don’t enjoy the boobage. Chesticles. Whatever you like to call them… but I think the sheer number of monikers indicate how overwhelmingly popular they are. Hooters. Love pillows. Tatas. Bazoombas. Fun bags. The list goes on…and on. (As an aside: check out the old school allure of "Bosoms")

Conversation. I know, I know, the stereotype is that men don’t care to hear what women say. Not true, in my personal experience. For instance, talking about sex in a clear and open way --one that indicates neither fear nor revulsion—is, apparently, rare. And seductive.

And women? Women are just about as easy as men.

I’ve heard men complain that it’s tougher to seduce women. I beg to differ. It’s just that a lot of men try to seduce women with what they themselves think to be attractive. Speaking not for everywoman, but for many of us, I can categorically say:

Flat abs/washboard stomach? Whatever. Ability to scale rock walls and windsurf? Yawn. Fancy car, lots of cash, bestselling status? What are we, fourteen? And bragging about any of the former, or dissing the ex-wife? Good lord in heaven, where’s the exit???

On the other hand…A man who’s sweet to little kids? Hot. If he likes animals, is kind to old people? Steaming.

Smart, good sense of humor, looks you in the eyes while talking to you?
Excuse me while I go fan myself.

*And one personal fetish: if he can spell (or at least bother to use spell-check)…I’m a goner.*

So when it comes to weapons of seduction, I say: Wield that stuff like a knife, baby. Oh, and then go write a novel about it. After all, where would mystery/drama/comedy be without it?

Knit THIS

I love guns. I love to shoot, adore the bang and flash and the smell. I even like to clean my gun afterward, polishing the cool metal and cleaning the barrel.

I love knives, but I'm scared of them. I think they can be more swiftly deadly than guns, and I'm a klutz. I don't play with them, and sometimes I'm scared to even chop tomatoes.

My weapon of choice? Easy.

The common knitting needle.

Think about it. Gorgeous in its simplicity, it can be used for much more than knitting a sweater. My favorite needles are AddiTurbos, which are two sharp metal tips connected by a thin plastic cable.

God, THINK about the possibilities. A knitter on the bus, sitting with her yarn, knitting away on her peach-colored shawl. She smiles as you sit in front of her. You turn, and say oh-so-creatively, "Knit one, purl two?" She laughs and inclines her head. She's probably NEVER heard that one before. You turn around, satisfied that you'll get her number before you both disembark. There are only the two of you in the bus, and she's a sure thing, lonely with her yarn.

The bus goes through a dark tunnel. You feel her breath on your ear--this is it. You knew it. You turn your head and see her peach lace lying on the ground behind your seat, no needle holding it all together. The last thought you have before you're garroted is that your grandmother would have approved of a knitter like her.

I, however, am a little more tender when it comes to my needles, and I use them as a different kind of weapon. I display them when I need help coping with something -- pulling them out and knitting furiously as people discuss politics around me. The more stupid a comment is, the faster I knit. A whole sock can get done as people discuss their opinions of the death penalty. I hold my knitting in front of me like an amulet when I'm in a house that's playing a TV channel I don't normally watch (OKAY - LET'S JUST SAY IT, I'm looking at you, FoxTV) , knowing that knitting fast and hard will save me, will get me out alive.

My knitting needles are my protection. My life preserver. And if I ever need them to be, they really could be a rather effective weapon.



And if, god forbid, I'm ever chased by a vampire, I hope I have my rosewood needles with me. They would do some eternal damage.

Don't Start Something You Can't Finish

by Sophie

WEAPONS

So Juliet and I were talking about weapons over the weekend in our downtime (we were in Phoenix for the first annual Poisoned Pen Mystery Readers Conference, which was a blast - more on that in a moment) and we were both whining that all the other Pens know SOOOOOO much more than we do on the subject. Well, I was whining, actually; Juliet received an entire arsenal as a gift when she was a toddler, but I'll let her talk about that.

Weapons figure prominently on the cover of both of my books, which I find sort of amusing, especially since one of them is a gun, and what I knew about guns - until recently - you could fit on a matchbook cover.

I did what every good writer does and researched the heck out of the guns I put in my books - and then I backed it up by consulting experts.

But when Juliet and I were talking, it occurred to me that there is one weapon I know well:

Emotion.

How do we hurt each other most deeply? Consider this list of emotion words, and stack them up against any teetering tower of bullets, throwing stars, nunchucks, cat-o-nine-tails, nailguns and the like:

betray, spurn, vex, villify, condemn, castigate, shame, pillory, confound, defame...

I could do this all day, but regrettably I am on a churning-burning deadline so I must close prematurely. But as a consolation, here are a few photos from the weekend - -

The crew from the Poisoned Pen conference: Juliet; Phoenix SistersInCrime Roni and Shantelle; Barbara Peters, owner of the Poisoned Pen; and authors Lauren Willig and Dana Stabenow (yes, they are in p.j.s...long story)

Juliet and librarian extraordinaire Lesa Holstein of the Glendale Public Library, who graciously hosted a group of us for an event called "Women Who Kill"


Juliet, me, and Stefanie Pintoff, winner of this year's Edgar for Best First Mystery Novel
This is the villa we somehow got accidentally upgraded to, at the Arizona Biltmore. (A front desk clerk may have been involved.) SWANKY! And yes, those are my toes :)