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.

I love throwing things. I don't hit anymore. That way lies bad, cyclical ways. But I love throwing things. Especially glass things. I love the breaking noises.

I love the breaking noises

Firearms. Much more satisfying. A couple of times a year I tell my husband that we have to go to the firing range, and then I'm good for months.