I’m late to the Dexter phenomenon. We don’t have Showtime, and I just recently started watching this amazing show. Now halfway through season 4, I’m convinced he's one of the best characters I've ever come across—on television or in literature.
At first glance, Dexter seems pretty cut and dried. A psychopath (or is it sociopath? The two often go together) who gets his kicks murdering people, but with a caveat: only the bad guys, so he’s at least contributing to society. This ‘code’ was established by his adoptive father to keep Dexter alive and to help the old man from accepting the fact that his son was a coldblooded killer.
Sociopaths and psychopaths are intermixed and sometimes hard to define. They don’t care about anyone but themselves, have no conscious, no morals. They feel nothing, although many can mimic feelings in order to blend in. Psychopaths are often defined as the monsters in society, and this is how Dexter sees himself. A monster fulfilling his need the best way he can.
Throughout the series, Dexter repeatedly says he can’t feel. He has a girlfriend to appear normal, and she’s perfect because she’s got dark issues of her own. She’s also got two kids he’s very good with. The closest person in his life is his sister, Deb. Still, he doesn’t believe he truly cares for these people. In his mind, he’s going through the necessary motions. And yet he consistently goes the extra mile for all of them.
As the show progresses, Dexter goes from seeing himself as a monster happily blending in to questioning everything he’s been taught by his father. He grows more attached to his girlfriend and her children, going so far as to call them ‘my kids’ when one of them is threatened. He saves his sister’s life at great personal sacrifice and has no regret because he’s ‘fond of her.’
The interesting thing is these aren’t contrived actions. None are done simply to look like he’s the good guy. They’re visceral reactions he can’t explain. After all, he’s the monster who can’t feel.
Yet nearly the entire show revolves around what he’s feeling: about himself, his place in life, the people closest to him. He tries to fit in not because he has to but because he wants to. Even when his darkness calls, he sticks to his code because of his trust in his father’s advice. Dexter claims to have no conscience, and yet every major decision is weighed carefully, with visions of his now deceased father chiming in with guidance.
So what is Dexter? A killer with a conscience, certainly. But is he a true psychopath? There are worse monsters out there. Dexter only kills murders, and only after he has concrete proof.
Eventually Dexter discovers why he kills, and the knowledge sends him on a path of self-discovery. Considering what he experienced, it’s a miracle he functions in society at all. Experts debate whether psychopaths (and sociopaths) are made or if their problems are genetic. One thing they all seem to have is a stressor, a trigger that sends them down the wrong path. This certainly happened to Dexter, and I have to wonder if he would have ever had the urge to kill had he not experienced such trauma.
I don’t believe he’s a true psychopath. His experience likely made him a killer, but Dexter cares too much about those around them to be considered a psychopath. I think he’s convinced himself he’s a monster because he’s afraid to admit he cares. Keeping people at arm’s length not only protects his dark secret but his emotions as well.
One of the most moving scenes (and an awesome performance by Michael C. Hall) is early in season four. Dexter is getting ready to kill a woman who murdered her family. She pleads with him, telling him he's no different from her, that he hides himself from his family. As Dexter thinks of Rita and the kids, a stunning realization hits him: he doesn't want to lose them. He's blown away by the thought and tears come to his eyes. It's an incredible moment of growth for the character, and it's this type of humanization that sets him apart.
However you define him, Dexter is a character of complexities and contrasts. He’s committed horrible crimes and is utterly callous with his victims. He’s out for self-preservation. And yet, he’s a good man. He takes care of his family and friends, his girlfriend and her kids. He lives by a moral code no other criminal would follow. He is in constant flux, trying to understand himself and his place in this world. Viewers root for Dexter. We want him to get away with murder and sometimes we can’t wait until he kills his victim, because they deserve to pay the ultimate price.
What other character has garnered such a range of emotions? None that I can think of. Dexter is a true original.
Showing posts with label thriller. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thriller. Show all posts
10
Dexter: New American Hero?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Labels: characters, crime, Dexter, murder, psychopath, serial killers, sociopath, television, thriller, writing
18
Your Book in One Sentence.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Labels: agents, antagonist, editors, female protagonists, novel, querying, thriller, twitter, work in progress, writing
We’ve all heard it before. Writing manuals, experts, and most importantly, agents and editors, insist if you can’t describe your novel in once sentence, you don’t have a good grip on it. Between the keyboard and your creative mind, something’s muddled.
A small part of me believes this is a bit extreme, but I understand the premise. When querying, we’ve got about a nanosecond (maybe two) to grab an agent’s attention. The one-sentence rule is not only a way for them to judge your concept but also your writing ability. Effectively jamming a 100K(ish) book into one sentence takes skill.
It dawned on me that while we all support each other’s writing, most of us don’t know much about what we’re all working on. We talk about word count and plot issues on Twitter, but always in generic terms. So I thought it would be fun to put our skills to the test and share our novels – in one sentence.
Of course as I write this, I’m already wondering if I’m supposed to include the title and genre in that one sentence. A lot to learn before querying time, obviously.
Here’s my first attempt:
Psychological thriller Light and Dark follows Emilie Davis, the victim of an attempted kidnapping, as she fights the demons of her past while searching for her stalker, a man known only as ‘The Taker.’
This sentence shows the gist of the story but leaves a lot of the meat out. There’s no mention of my co-protag or the Taker’s outstanding escape. The sub-plot of Emilie’s past issues and her big secret are barely touched. This one sentence thing is even harder than it looks. I know my book. I know it’s a plot that works. Maybe I’m over thinking as usual. What is Light and Dark really about? That’s a working title, by the way.
Second attempt:
After a strange and frightening stalker bungles a kidnapping attempt and makes one of the most daring escapes in modern Las Vegas history, Emilie Davis must face the darkness of her past to outwit the man known only as ‘The Taker.’
I like this better. I still wonder if the title and genre should be in the sentence, but this tells more about the book than my first attempt. There’s still no mention of the second protag, but Emilie is the driving force of the book. It’s her experiences that shape the second protag’s thoughts and actions.
I could have included more about where the Taker escaped two and talked about the underground world he visits, but that’s a subplot. It’s a definite point of interest and makes for a great twist, but it’s not really what the book is about.
What do you guys think? I would love feedback and constructive criticism, and I definitely want to read your one-sentence novels. Let’s help each other!
Happy Monday!
A small part of me believes this is a bit extreme, but I understand the premise. When querying, we’ve got about a nanosecond (maybe two) to grab an agent’s attention. The one-sentence rule is not only a way for them to judge your concept but also your writing ability. Effectively jamming a 100K(ish) book into one sentence takes skill.
It dawned on me that while we all support each other’s writing, most of us don’t know much about what we’re all working on. We talk about word count and plot issues on Twitter, but always in generic terms. So I thought it would be fun to put our skills to the test and share our novels – in one sentence.
Of course as I write this, I’m already wondering if I’m supposed to include the title and genre in that one sentence. A lot to learn before querying time, obviously.
Here’s my first attempt:
Psychological thriller Light and Dark follows Emilie Davis, the victim of an attempted kidnapping, as she fights the demons of her past while searching for her stalker, a man known only as ‘The Taker.’
This sentence shows the gist of the story but leaves a lot of the meat out. There’s no mention of my co-protag or the Taker’s outstanding escape. The sub-plot of Emilie’s past issues and her big secret are barely touched. This one sentence thing is even harder than it looks. I know my book. I know it’s a plot that works. Maybe I’m over thinking as usual. What is Light and Dark really about? That’s a working title, by the way.
Second attempt:
After a strange and frightening stalker bungles a kidnapping attempt and makes one of the most daring escapes in modern Las Vegas history, Emilie Davis must face the darkness of her past to outwit the man known only as ‘The Taker.’
I like this better. I still wonder if the title and genre should be in the sentence, but this tells more about the book than my first attempt. There’s still no mention of the second protag, but Emilie is the driving force of the book. It’s her experiences that shape the second protag’s thoughts and actions.
I could have included more about where the Taker escaped two and talked about the underground world he visits, but that’s a subplot. It’s a definite point of interest and makes for a great twist, but it’s not really what the book is about.
What do you guys think? I would love feedback and constructive criticism, and I definitely want to read your one-sentence novels. Let’s help each other!
Happy Monday!
5
Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet
Friday, June 3, 2011
Labels: amwriting, flash fiction, fridayflash, mystery, serial killers, suspense, thriller, webfic, writing
Continuation of last week's post, now titled The Prophet. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks for the feedback:)
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
WARNING: Graphic Content
Flies swarmed in her face. Attracted to the rotting horror in the trailer, the annoying insects had come in droves. Cops and stone-faced forensics people surfed through the trash, picking apart the garbage like prospectors digging for gold. Jaymee watched as a steady stream of techs wearing contraptions resembling full body condoms carried evidence out of the trailer into an official looking white van.
“When was the last time you saw the victim?”
Jaymee’s eyes flickered to the detective called Adams. Short and pudgy, he appeared to be on the other side of forty and sliding full speed down the hill. Wrinkles lined his eyes, and sweat shined on his forehead. He dabbed his face with a dingy hanky and waited for her response.
“Few days ago. After work.”
“And what did the victim do for a living?”
“Her name was Crystal,” Jaymee snapped. “She stripped at local shit-hole in Grand Rapids.”
The detective raised a grayed eyebrow. “Her income limited to stripping? No side jobs?”
“She did what she had to do.”
“Don’t we all.”
Jaymee clamped her lips shut. Typical old school cop. Didn’t give a fuck about the people living below the poverty line unless he could do something to bust their chops. “Can I go now?”
“You’re a witness.”
“I didn’t see a damned thing! She was dead when I got here!”
Dead for a while, by the looks of it. If Jaymee lived to be a withered old lady, she would never forget the sight of Crystal’s body. Wrists and ankles tied down, dried blood pooled around her lower region, her private area slashed open, dark bruises everywhere. Slashes on her breasts and arms. The white sheets had been stained red—Crystal had bled out from the gaping wound in her neck.
Jaymee had heard a cop say her injuries were sustained pre-mortem. Which meant Crystal had suffered unimaginable pain. Her eyes were wide open in death—had she been conscious until the knife slit her throat?
“You discovered the body,” Adams said.
“I’ve told you everything.”
He ignored her. “Crystal have any enemies? She do her extracurricular work on her own or did she have an employer?”
“She didn’t have a fucking pimp.” Jaymee’d had enough of Adam’s prejudice. “Crystal wasn’t a streetwalker. Sometimes she did the guys favors for extra cash—that’s it.”
“Nothing unusual in the past week or so?”
“No.”
“Adams!” A deep voice called from the left. Yet another car had arrived on scene, this one a shiny, black Impala. A man stepped out, stylish black sunglasses protecting his eyes from the sun. His jeans hung loosely around his hips, and the dark, green shirt he wore complimented his tanned skin.
Jaymee watched his approach. He didn’t look like a cop. Reporter? No press badge, just a Blackberry and a bag slung over his shoulder. He had an air of cool confidence that set her on edge.
“Samuels,” the detective sounded less than pleased at the other man’s arrival. “Not sure why you’re here.”
“Your boss just called me,” the newcomer said. He towered over Adams by several inches.
Adams scowled. “What for?”
Jaymee rolled her eyes at the pissing contest. Why didn’t men just greet one another by whipping out their dicks and measuring? Get the ego bullshit over with.
“Same M.O.”
“Not exactly. Couple of new things.”
“Same signature.”
Adam's face turned puce. “Says who? I haven’t heard a damned thing about it.”
“Check with your boss. He’s inside while you’re conducting interviews.”
Jaymee raised her hand. “Can I go now? I have nothing else to say.”
Tall, dark, and annoying turned to smile down at her. “Agent Nick Samuels, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
The big boys. No wonder Adams was ticked. Cops hated having their turf invaded.
“Jaymee Morris. Waitress at The Wall-eyed Bar, greasiest food in Grand Rapids.”
“And the person who discovered the body,” Samuels pointed out.
“That, too.” She cut Samuels off before he could speak again. “I’ve already told your buddy everything.”
“Of course, but I’d like to ask you some different questions. We have reason to believe your friend’s murder is related to a string of others near the Twin Cities.”
“You know how far we are from the Cities?” Jayme scoffed. “Don’t murders tend to stick to a favorite place?”
Samuels pushed his sunglasses onto his head. Green eyes stared intently down at her. “Serial killers can be unpredictable. There are stressors that can make them alter their procedures.”
Jaymee felt dizzy. “You think this is a serial killer?”
“There’s no evidence of that yet,” Adams sputtered. “None that I’ve seen, anyway.”
Samuel’s eyes didn’t leave Jaymee’s. “You haven’t seen the proverb yet.”
“Proverb?” Jaymee asked.
“Ms. Morris,” Samuels said, “Have you heard of The Prophet?”
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
WARNING: Graphic Content
Flies swarmed in her face. Attracted to the rotting horror in the trailer, the annoying insects had come in droves. Cops and stone-faced forensics people surfed through the trash, picking apart the garbage like prospectors digging for gold. Jaymee watched as a steady stream of techs wearing contraptions resembling full body condoms carried evidence out of the trailer into an official looking white van.
“When was the last time you saw the victim?”
Jaymee’s eyes flickered to the detective called Adams. Short and pudgy, he appeared to be on the other side of forty and sliding full speed down the hill. Wrinkles lined his eyes, and sweat shined on his forehead. He dabbed his face with a dingy hanky and waited for her response.
“Few days ago. After work.”
“And what did the victim do for a living?”
“Her name was Crystal,” Jaymee snapped. “She stripped at local shit-hole in Grand Rapids.”
The detective raised a grayed eyebrow. “Her income limited to stripping? No side jobs?”
“She did what she had to do.”
“Don’t we all.”
Jaymee clamped her lips shut. Typical old school cop. Didn’t give a fuck about the people living below the poverty line unless he could do something to bust their chops. “Can I go now?”
“You’re a witness.”
“I didn’t see a damned thing! She was dead when I got here!”
Dead for a while, by the looks of it. If Jaymee lived to be a withered old lady, she would never forget the sight of Crystal’s body. Wrists and ankles tied down, dried blood pooled around her lower region, her private area slashed open, dark bruises everywhere. Slashes on her breasts and arms. The white sheets had been stained red—Crystal had bled out from the gaping wound in her neck.
Jaymee had heard a cop say her injuries were sustained pre-mortem. Which meant Crystal had suffered unimaginable pain. Her eyes were wide open in death—had she been conscious until the knife slit her throat?
“You discovered the body,” Adams said.
“I’ve told you everything.”
He ignored her. “Crystal have any enemies? She do her extracurricular work on her own or did she have an employer?”
“She didn’t have a fucking pimp.” Jaymee’d had enough of Adam’s prejudice. “Crystal wasn’t a streetwalker. Sometimes she did the guys favors for extra cash—that’s it.”
“Nothing unusual in the past week or so?”
“No.”
“Adams!” A deep voice called from the left. Yet another car had arrived on scene, this one a shiny, black Impala. A man stepped out, stylish black sunglasses protecting his eyes from the sun. His jeans hung loosely around his hips, and the dark, green shirt he wore complimented his tanned skin.
Jaymee watched his approach. He didn’t look like a cop. Reporter? No press badge, just a Blackberry and a bag slung over his shoulder. He had an air of cool confidence that set her on edge.
“Samuels,” the detective sounded less than pleased at the other man’s arrival. “Not sure why you’re here.”
“Your boss just called me,” the newcomer said. He towered over Adams by several inches.
Adams scowled. “What for?”
Jaymee rolled her eyes at the pissing contest. Why didn’t men just greet one another by whipping out their dicks and measuring? Get the ego bullshit over with.
“Same M.O.”
“Not exactly. Couple of new things.”
“Same signature.”
Adam's face turned puce. “Says who? I haven’t heard a damned thing about it.”
“Check with your boss. He’s inside while you’re conducting interviews.”
Jaymee raised her hand. “Can I go now? I have nothing else to say.”
Tall, dark, and annoying turned to smile down at her. “Agent Nick Samuels, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
The big boys. No wonder Adams was ticked. Cops hated having their turf invaded.
“Jaymee Morris. Waitress at The Wall-eyed Bar, greasiest food in Grand Rapids.”
“And the person who discovered the body,” Samuels pointed out.
“That, too.” She cut Samuels off before he could speak again. “I’ve already told your buddy everything.”
“Of course, but I’d like to ask you some different questions. We have reason to believe your friend’s murder is related to a string of others near the Twin Cities.”
“You know how far we are from the Cities?” Jayme scoffed. “Don’t murders tend to stick to a favorite place?”
Samuels pushed his sunglasses onto his head. Green eyes stared intently down at her. “Serial killers can be unpredictable. There are stressors that can make them alter their procedures.”
Jaymee felt dizzy. “You think this is a serial killer?”
“There’s no evidence of that yet,” Adams sputtered. “None that I’ve seen, anyway.”
Samuel’s eyes didn’t leave Jaymee’s. “You haven’t seen the proverb yet.”
“Proverb?” Jaymee asked.
“Ms. Morris,” Samuels said, “Have you heard of The Prophet?”
8
Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet
This is my first attempt at Friday Flash. It's an idea that's been churning in my head as I finish my suspense novel, and I wanted to share it with others. Hope you enjoy it!
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
Adult Content
“I don’t understand.” Jaymee slapped the pink paper onto the manager’s desk.
Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he glared up at her. “What’s not to understand? You’re a month late with the lot rent. Now you got two weeks to come up with the money or get out.”
“But my boyfriend paid you,” Jaymee argued. “I gave him the money three days ago.”
Mr. Shaw crushed his Marlboro Light into an overflowing ashtray. “I didn’t get it.”
Jaymee frantically dug into her bag. “I can post-date a check.”
Shaw laughed showing his yellowed teeth. “Right. Then it’ll bounce. Cash or money-order only.”
She didn’t have it. Jaymee was barely able to put food on the table let alone replace rent money. Furious, she grabbed the pink slip and stormed out of the manager’s office.
That bastard. Wade had promised he’d pay the lot rent. What had he done with the cash she’d given him? Spent it on hookers? More drugs? Probably both.
She trudged down the winding dirty path grimacing as her worn heels began to fill with sand. Fawn Lake Court was much less beautiful than it sounded. Forty or more dilapidated mobile trailers lined the park. Children played in the empty lots and neighborhood dogs roamed free along with raccoons and other night bandits.
Jaymee’s trailer was at the south end of the park. One of the “newer” models, the paint was only moderately chipped and the tiny back deck was only partially rotted.
Her life was never going to change. The child of a factory worker and born-again Christian, a pregnancy at sixteen had killed Jaymee’s dreams of becoming a lawyer, and her righteous parents had thrown Jaymee out when they heard of her condition.
“Good Christian girls don’t get themselves in trouble,” her mother shouted. “How could you do this to us?”
Her father had clutched his Bible to his heart. “You’ve shamed this family, girl. There’s no place in God’s house for whores.”
Jaymee wondered what her father would think if he knew his own brother had fathered her child in the backroom of his dingy laundromat, holding Jaymee down while she fought in vain against his considerable weight.
Good ole’ Christian Joe would probably still find a way to blame her.
The hot August sun bore down on her soaking the roots of her shoulder-length brown hair in sweat. A single bead of perspiration trickled down her neck and into the crevice of her bra.
So much for northern Minnesota not having any humidity. Today was miserable.
Suddenly, a rotting stench wafted through the summer air. Jaymee gagged and covered her mouth. Two doors down from her trailer, her neighbor’s trashcans were knocked over, debris spread everywhere.
“What the hell did she put in her garbage?” Jaymee muttered.
All the windows of the trailer were open—couldn’t the woman smell that? “Crystal, you in there?” Jaymee shouted. “You got a big ass mess out here, girl!”
Loud barking was her only answer. Crystal’s dog, an ugly stray mixed-breed she’d name Mutt, stood at the back window, yapping urgently.
“Shit. Crystal must’ve forgot to let him out.”
Jaymee sidestepped the trash, holding her breath as the smell grew worse. Thick and putrid, it seemed to be emanating from the trailer. “Mutt, did you crap in there? I’m not cleaning up after you.”
She shoved her spare key into the flimsy lock and pulled open the door. “Holy fuck!” Bile rose in her throat as the stink intensified. Mutt scrambled past her with a yelp and made a beeline for the empty lot.
He’d made a mess of the trailer, knocking chairs over and digging at the flimsy door.
But he didn’t leave those cabinets standing open.
On edge, Jaymee stepped further into the small trailer. A kitchen drawer lay on the floor, mismatched silverware scattered around it.
Survival instincts told her to run; she was getting herself into something she wanted no part of. But something propelled Jaymee forward. She reached the closed bedroom door and slowly pushed it open.
Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
Adult Content
“I don’t understand.” Jaymee slapped the pink paper onto the manager’s desk.
Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he glared up at her. “What’s not to understand? You’re a month late with the lot rent. Now you got two weeks to come up with the money or get out.”
“But my boyfriend paid you,” Jaymee argued. “I gave him the money three days ago.”
Mr. Shaw crushed his Marlboro Light into an overflowing ashtray. “I didn’t get it.”
Jaymee frantically dug into her bag. “I can post-date a check.”
Shaw laughed showing his yellowed teeth. “Right. Then it’ll bounce. Cash or money-order only.”
She didn’t have it. Jaymee was barely able to put food on the table let alone replace rent money. Furious, she grabbed the pink slip and stormed out of the manager’s office.
That bastard. Wade had promised he’d pay the lot rent. What had he done with the cash she’d given him? Spent it on hookers? More drugs? Probably both.
She trudged down the winding dirty path grimacing as her worn heels began to fill with sand. Fawn Lake Court was much less beautiful than it sounded. Forty or more dilapidated mobile trailers lined the park. Children played in the empty lots and neighborhood dogs roamed free along with raccoons and other night bandits.
Jaymee’s trailer was at the south end of the park. One of the “newer” models, the paint was only moderately chipped and the tiny back deck was only partially rotted.
Her life was never going to change. The child of a factory worker and born-again Christian, a pregnancy at sixteen had killed Jaymee’s dreams of becoming a lawyer, and her righteous parents had thrown Jaymee out when they heard of her condition.
“Good Christian girls don’t get themselves in trouble,” her mother shouted. “How could you do this to us?”
Her father had clutched his Bible to his heart. “You’ve shamed this family, girl. There’s no place in God’s house for whores.”
Jaymee wondered what her father would think if he knew his own brother had fathered her child in the backroom of his dingy laundromat, holding Jaymee down while she fought in vain against his considerable weight.
Good ole’ Christian Joe would probably still find a way to blame her.
The hot August sun bore down on her soaking the roots of her shoulder-length brown hair in sweat. A single bead of perspiration trickled down her neck and into the crevice of her bra.
So much for northern Minnesota not having any humidity. Today was miserable.
Suddenly, a rotting stench wafted through the summer air. Jaymee gagged and covered her mouth. Two doors down from her trailer, her neighbor’s trashcans were knocked over, debris spread everywhere.
“What the hell did she put in her garbage?” Jaymee muttered.
All the windows of the trailer were open—couldn’t the woman smell that? “Crystal, you in there?” Jaymee shouted. “You got a big ass mess out here, girl!”
Loud barking was her only answer. Crystal’s dog, an ugly stray mixed-breed she’d name Mutt, stood at the back window, yapping urgently.
“Shit. Crystal must’ve forgot to let him out.”
Jaymee sidestepped the trash, holding her breath as the smell grew worse. Thick and putrid, it seemed to be emanating from the trailer. “Mutt, did you crap in there? I’m not cleaning up after you.”
She shoved her spare key into the flimsy lock and pulled open the door. “Holy fuck!” Bile rose in her throat as the stink intensified. Mutt scrambled past her with a yelp and made a beeline for the empty lot.
He’d made a mess of the trailer, knocking chairs over and digging at the flimsy door.
But he didn’t leave those cabinets standing open.
On edge, Jaymee stepped further into the small trailer. A kitchen drawer lay on the floor, mismatched silverware scattered around it.
Survival instincts told her to run; she was getting herself into something she wanted no part of. But something propelled Jaymee forward. She reached the closed bedroom door and slowly pushed it open.
Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.
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