Men, in my experience, fight to show off. They scrabble for position. When women are pissed off enough to actually fight? We're out to fucking kill.

I've noticed that as well. Though I don't get the whole fighting for position thing so much. I remember when I was in junior high my male friends used to beat the crap out of each other on a regular basis and I'd be the one sitting on the sidelines going "What's wrong with you people?" I mean, I'd roughhouse some too, but as soon as people started throwing actual punches I was out of there.

I've actually been in very few fights in my life, simply because I refused to throw the first punch (Whereas now I'm willing to do so if I feel I or someone I care about is physically threatened, but thankfully that hasn't happened.) Over a dozen times during my scholastic career I had guys get up in my face trying to goad me into a fight, but I never took the bait. The only time I ever swung was if they swung first, and sometimes not even then. (Had a kid half my size trying to pick a fight with me in gym class my junior year. He came at me swinging and I literally held him at bay with one arm until the teacher stopped laughing long enough to convince him the stupidity of his actions.)

Women on the other hand... any time girls fought in our school there tended to be blood and hair all down the hallway. One girl even jabbed a safety pin into another's eye. Most of the time the guys spent half the fight posturing and spouting macho bullshit. The girls were freakin' scary.

Almost all women I know throw things when in a temper. I tend to, if there's nothing for me to kick. I don't tend to slam my hands down on things. Less of a good thump or shatter that way.

I'm aware of this, but is this a general temper, or when the specific object of their rage is present to throw things at. (A friend of mine described all his arguements with one of his exes as involving him trying to placate and dodge at the same time.)

I think it's more that I need to make it very clear what went wrong in her marriage and how she responded to it. I tried to be subtle and imply a lot, show not tell, etc., but apparently I overdid it.

In my most recent chapter, I felt like I gave out a lot of good character information about one of my female leads during one scene without whacking the reader over the head with it, but what little feedback I've gotten so far suggests I was way too subtle. I think it's tough writing subtelty sometimes because your mind already knows how to connect the dots, where as the reader needs them to be numbered sometimes.

I think I've just realized the source of my anxiety problems. I never get visibly angry.

Heh. When I'm truly angry, there is no doubt in the minds of anyone within a half mile radius. It doesn't help that I tend to turn bright red before I start yelling and breaking things.

Plei, huh. Interesting. I meant it to be that way in Famous Flower, but she seems a bit muted to me in both Weaver and Matty. And Cruel Sister is very definitely shaping up to be Ringan's book - it's his arse in the meat grinder.

Most of the time the guys spent half the fight posturing and spouting macho bullshit. The girls were freakin' scary.

Yep. The guys always seem to me to have the "let's fight for heirarchy positioning!" thing, or at least potential for said thing, going on. If you've managed to piss a woman off enough to trigger a physical response of that kind, speaking for me and mine? Your life's in danger, get to safety NOW.

A very long time ago, I frogmarched the woman I hated above anyone else on the planet out of her own bedroom and out of her own house. What I chiefly remember was the iron control it took to not damage the little bitch. Because had I given in to the rage of the moment - to be fair, it was fuelled by severe physical discomfort, since I'd been in a wheelchair for several months and had lost all the callouses on the soles of my feet and they hurt like hell - I'd have snapped the little shit's neck like a pretzel. And heaven knows, I wanted to. She was also hurting the man I loved above all else. I was very careful not to damage her.

edit: forgot - I'm not a thrower, and never have been. It may have something to do with my height and physical strength, I don't know. But in the days when I allowed my temper to take control, it was a matter of "Deb pound head into pavement! Deb not stop until Deb see evidence of braaaaains! Which could take awhile....."

I'm aware of this, but is this a general temper, or when the specific object of their rage is present to throw things at. (A friend of mine described all his arguements with one of his exes as involving him trying to placate and dodge at the same time.)

Oh, general temper.

Really, I need a better dart board.

Really, I need a better dart board.

Have you considered constructive destruction? You know - in which you take a chunk of house repair (say, the toilet you just replaced, breaking all your nails and damaging the plumbing in the process because the assholes who owned the place before you unstalled it wrong, and it's been leaking for seventy four years), and take it out to the garden, and beat on it with a small heavy implement of doom until it's powder?

Very very satisfying.

Have you considered constructive destruction? You know - in which you take a chunk of house repair (say, the toilet you just replaced, breaking all your nails and damaging the plumbing in the process because the assholes who owned the place before you unstalled it wrong, and it's been leaking for seventy four years), and take it out to the garden, and beat on it with a small heavy implement of doom until it's powder?

Sadly, my house destruction is on hold, and most of the destroyed bits are long gone.

I did tear down a half wall of brick once when dealing with layoff blues. That was satisfying.

I did tear down a half wall of brick once when dealing with layoff blues. That was satisfying.

Yep. And since I'm a thumper, rather than a thrower? There's just something so damned soul-feeding and empowering about taking a hideous melamine wall cupboard - especially after you've gouged your hand open on a hidden tenpenny nail because it had been mounted improperly when Warren Harding was still president - out into your back garden, and taking a crowboar to it.

Five chapters in.

Either my first chapter is weakest of the five, possibly because I've rewritten it so many times that it's too contrived and set-piece, or it took me the first 20 pages to get over feeling self-conscious about reading my own writing.

One of my CPs months ago had a problem with the setup of the minor battle scene in Ch. 5. I filed it in the back of my mind because I wasn't sure what to do with it. Now I know, and can't believe I didn't think of it in the first place. But I will have to do a little bit of research, and completely rewrite the chapter. I broke my first-read rule of not writing anything down just to make sure I wouldn't forget the idea.

Ah, well. It'll make the story stronger.

Have you considered constructive destruction?

Guerilla weeding. Hacking into the root system and utterly destroying some plant that has offended my eyes. Oh, yes. Seeing the withered corpses rended into twigs and left in brown paper bags at the curb for the mulch-men to collect. Very satisfying.

Most of my political writing, including faking my death, has come about because I was very angry.

See, I was raised by the maxim "Children do not show anger. Ladies do not show anger, either, unless it's toward unruly children." If I shut a door a little too hard when my mother knew I was mad, I had to come back and shut it correctly. If I stomped out of a room because I was prohibited from expressing my disagreement and frustration, I was made to come back and leave again, "Like a lady." I was not allowed to throw things, unless it was an unsatisfactory sock against a wall--a balled pair of socks made enough noise that she would come and check that I wasn't throwing things. There was no outlet made for anger, and thus I turned it inward, eating it until my weight ballooned and also my digestive system tried to digest itself.

Even though they were boys, I made provision for my kids to vent their anger harmlessly, and made occasion for them to express their opinions without censure. One can benefit from a negative example, after all.

But let me tell you, since Mom's gone stoney deaf? You never saw anybody take as much joy in slamming a door when I get frustrated and angry with her. It makes me feel better instantly.