Baddies

Yesterday, oddly enough, I did not feel like posting on the blog. So, in a self-indulgent mood, I did not. So there. ;)

Today I'm thinking (again) about villains. Why are they so fun to write and read about? If we met someone in real life who was mean and nasty and did evil things just to mess with us, we would not want MORE of it. We would steer clear of them, or perhaps report them to our local law enforcement or mental health facility. But in fiction? Give us more evil, baby.

Huh. Must be some sort of psychological explanation for that...

Anyway, I love to write them, and as far as I know everybody loves to read them. They give us delicious shivers.

You know, it's funny. In the piece I was working on yesterday, there's even an incidental villain. Somebody who only appears in one scene, whose ill-will against the MC is not personal, who just is evil because of his situation, and his less-than-yummy personality. But still it's fun:

From The Murderess's Tale, Copyright 2006 by Susan Adrian, All Rights Reserved

I wiggled out from behind the boxes, blinking in the sunlight. A green, rolling landscape stretched before me, tilled fields and sheep holdings pricked by spreading trees. The scent of new-mown hay blew on the wind. I jumped when a face popped into view, just above the wagon bed.

It was a singularly unpleasant face, wrinkled and brown as a walnut shell, now twisted in a scowl. And out of proportion, his head far too big for his small body.

"What do ye out there?" He scrambled into the bed with practiced ease, then scuttled towards me. I could not move. He shoved me behind the boxes, knocking me painfully back on my bound hands.

"There now," he said. His voice was low and scratchy, as if little used. "Now I shall give ye the way o' things."

I narrowed my eyes at him, as much response as I could manage with the gag, and inched up to sitting again, silently praying to St. Catherine, the patron saint of virgins.

"We've to go in the castle now. So as not to bring questions," he raised shaggy eyebrows at me, "I'll loose yer bonds afore we go in. Ye'll sit up front wi' me."

My breath came fast. Here was my chance.

"Should ye forgit yerself…" The little man pulled a long, wicked knife from his waist with startling speed, and waved it at me. "I'll remind ye quick. Aye?"

Isn't he cool? Even though of course he's NOT. And I don't even know his name, this strange little big-headed walnut man. But I enjoyed writing him...

Medieval Word of the Day: scathel: injurious, harmful, dangerous.