Superhuman

It seems to me, that male characters are more readily allowed to have superhuman traits.  They take (or give) a punch and rarely suffer any ill effects, for example.  But female characters are expected to be mere mortals.  Not only that, but even “strong” female characters are expected to be rendered helpless by relationship drama in their lives.  The female characters don’t get the privilege of being superhuman—they aren’t allowed to shake off personal problems they way male characters do.  (Not to mention the fact that most male characters can actually stay focused on their job/ task/ plot and not be derailed by personal issues.) 

This is where Bo is an outlier… she is more like a male character.  But with all those fun female traits.  She gets to be sexy and smart and more capable than the average woman.  This too me sounds like a lot more fun than another average woman who gets her friends/ family in danger because she can’t think straight for more than two chapters in a row.

Perhaps this is the type of female character that is preferred?  Except, over in Urban Fantasy, women like Bo are more the norm. 

FFF 8: Time

I'm a little late this week... partly because I still thought the deadlines for F3 were Friday.  And partly because I really just need the whole week.  =/  I'm gonna keep trying the prompts, when they tickle my muse, but I already know I'm not gonna make any Wednesday deadlines.  ESPECIALLY not Wednesdays!

Anyway, here's my story for F3 #8...



Wasting Time
A Bo Fexler Story

The clock ticked off the seconds, each a piercing reminder that time moved forward.  It was already late on a bitter cold night.  The heat had turned off for the night—and the long holiday weekend—in the office building.  The cold workspaces, extra clean by some managerial mandate, were even more impersonal in the dropping temperature.

My shoulders were tensed, as if doing so would contain what little body heat remained in my body.  My fingers were so numb that I could barely feel the shape of the mouse as I navigated with it. 

Without the intermittent whooshing and humming of the heating system, the office was still, lifeless.  Only the barely perceptible whir of the computer fan, the faint click of the mouse button, and the interminable ticking of a clock on the desk next to the computer broke the still stillness. 

Everyone that normally worked in that office building was off doing holiday related things.  If not enjoying their families for Thanksgiving, they were tolerating them with whatever coping methods or alcohol they could manage, or just plain avoiding them at home or at the bar.  The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is the biggest bar night of the year.  Few people work that night—besides the standard retail workers, law enforcement and emergency responders, and bartenders.  The occasional private investigator will put in a few hours, checking to make sure that a certain spouse is actually working late, rather than finding unauthorized reasons for giving thanks.  Then they, too, would join one of the normal Thanksgiving activities.  Being a PI, like being a cop, can be hard on personal relationships, though, with the odd hours and spying and trust issues that come with watching everyday people betray the trust of those who care for them. 

Luckily, I had trust issues long before I entered the PI business.  It makes the job easier.

The holidays no longer have any meaning for me beyond the normal ebb and flow of business as people increase or decrease their need to know the truth.  It’s just part of the passing of time.  One month to the next, one year to the next. 

I tucked my hands under my arm pits, trying desperately to restore some feeling to them, while the computer considered my request.  Fittingly, the machine turned a digital hour glass while we waited.  The sand grains didn’t move though.  It was an old machine, running an old operating system.  It made my job both easier and harder.  Security on that old computer was something of a joke.  And the man who used that machine wasn’t very good with computers.  The collection of empty folders named New Folder was amusing. 

The man who worked on that computer was at home with his wife and grown child.  According to the wife when she called me, he was pretty well trashed too.  That was why she'd asked if I was busy—or more importantly, was my time claimed by anyone else that holiday-eve.

 She'd first thought maybe he was staying out late because he was having an affair with some office girl.  But a couple days of surveillqnce showed that the husband was the last to leave his office, and did so well after everyone else.  Sometimes, he'd return to the office after a few hours at home, claiming he had things to do.  He had agreed to stay home the night before Thanksgiving, but promptly got plastered.  That meant she could take his keys—under the guise of keeping him from driving drunk.

So, while he was drunk, and his wife was working on a bottle of wine, I was snooping around the man's computer.  It looked like he had saved everything in the My Documents folder, without even the benefit of sub folders for organization.  Except there was another folder, buried among the system folders.  It was also named 'New Folder' but it wasn't empty.  It was quite full, actually.  Full of movies mainly, with the occaisional picture, too.  Renaming files was not part of his skill set, so I was able to tell the content without actually having to watch any of them.They had titles like Girl Takes Huge Dick and Young Blonde Likes Getting Rammed.  Not even any flicks about anal or threesomes.  As far as porn went, it was tame.    

I rummaged around in the man's internet history.  Nothing much there.  A couple porn sites, some random searches for trivia bits-- the sort of things people talk about in the break room and then Google to find out who was right-- and some searches for local addresses.  I searched for the addresses and found he'd gone looking for a bar, a floor covering outlet, two restaurants, and a sex toy store. 

With his not updated web browser, I was able to access his email, even though he'd logged out.  The session cookie was still available, so hitting the back browser until it activated the session cookie.  Except it wasn't worth the technical know how.

How the hell was I going to write up the report on this case? The man wasn't sleeping around.  He seemed to be avoiding his wife by going to the office after hours and, while there, watched porn.  And probably jerked off.   He had enough videos that he could watch for days.  Plus, given the dates on the files, it appeared that he went hunting for more every three or four days. 

 Hopefully she could accept that her husband was passing his time with porn and masturbation.  More likely, she would claim the investigation was a waste of time. 

For me, though, finding answers, no matter how mundane or disappointing, is never a waste of time.

Besides, I get paid pretty damn well for my time. 

END

FFF: Knowledge of Good and Evil

I'm feeling a little rusty at this fiction thing, but I decided to take a shot with the Flash Fiction Friday folks. 

Knowledge of Good and Evil
A Bo Fexler Story
by Clair Dickson

“Mom said I was going to be something one day.” She smiled as she said it, a big toothy grin that revealed a missing front tooth. She twirled the end of her blond pig tail around her finger.

"And what would you like to be?” I asked. If anyone had bothered to tell me just how much small talk I would do as a private eye before I got licensed, I probably would be in a whole different vocation-- for better or for worse.

She shrugged.

“Is Carrie home?” I asked.

“Nope. Not until 4. She's my sister, you know.”

“I do know,” I answered. I had also been reasonably sure she wasn't home. “Can I come in and talk with you for a little while?”

Jaimie hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “I dunno.”

“I brought some ice cream that I was hoping you would help me eat.”

She grinned “I love ice cream. Chocolate chip cookie is my favorite.” But she still blocked the doorway.

“Can I come in?”

She nodded, hesitated once more, then finally opened the door to let me in. She led me to the kitchen and got two bowls and two spoons from the dishwasher.

“How long have you been living with Carrie?” I asked scooping a large bowl of ice cream for Jaimie and a more reasonable sized bowl for myself.

“Hmmm... Since March. Sisters are like friends but better, right?”

It was either the statement or the way she said it, but something about that bothered me. “You like living with Carrie?”

She looked around and made thoughtful faces before answering, “Yeah.”

“It's better than living with Aunt Tara?”

More thoughtful faces. “Sometimes.”

“When is it better?”

“When she takes me places or buys me a new movie. I have a TV in my room so I can watch my movies. Aunt Tara never let me have a TV in my room.”

“When do you like not like being at Carrie's?”

“When Jeff comes over.” She frowned.

“What don't you like about Jeff coming over?” I didn't really want to hear the answer. I never do, but my job requires that I ask the questions anyway. Some days, I would gladly trade that for the stupid paperwork or clueless bosses that other people complain about.

“When Jeff comes over to spend the night, I'm supposed to stay in my room. I don't like always being in my room. Carrie said if I lived with her, then we'd do fun things. But we don't do fun things when Jeff comes over. And he comes over a lot.”

“Do you ever get to play with Jeff?”

She shook her head. “No. Carrie says that he’s her friend so they play together.” She shrugged. “I just wish he didn’t come over so much.”

“Does Jeff ever come over when Carrie isn’t here?”

“No. He’s Carrie’s friend, so he wouldn’t come to play with me. He never plays with me.” She finished the last of her ice cream and licked the spoon clean.

“Did Carrie say anything about what the court thought about you living with her?” The main reason I was there. I wasn’t particularly threatening, nor was I part of the justice system. My client and I had both figured that might make it easier to get information out of Carrie.

Jaimie licked her spoon. “Well, she said that since she wasn't married, that the court wouldn't send me checks any more. She helped me get a job so I can still buy things that I want. I'm saving up for a Wii. I got almost a hundred dollars.”

I smiled. We talked—or rather, I let Carrie tell me about herself and her life with Carrie for several minute more. Then I stood up and told her, “You can have the rest of the ice cream.”

“But you're going to miss Carrie.” Her brow furrowed.

“You know what, you did such a good job answering my questions, that I don't need to talk to Carrie.”

Jaimie beamed with pride.

I stopped by my client's house on the way home to give her an update before I finished my report. “So Jaimie thinks she's not getting the checks any more, but she is,” my client said. She was Jaimie's aunt and, until the previous year when Jaimie has turned eighteen, her guardian.
I nodded once in confirmation of the facts.

“I fought the courts. Fought them hard, particularly because I don't trust anyone in that family. She may be nineteen years old, but she has the mind of a child.”

“Seems all Carrie had to offer was that they would do fun things together. Jaimie adores her sister.”

My client shook her head. “How do you stand learning these things about people-- or stand meeting people like Carrie who would con her own developmentally disabled sister? It makes me sick...”

I gazed out the window while I figured out the best response. “Because of people like you that are just the opposite,” I said, even sounding sincere.

Truth was, I also had learned to detach myself, distance myself from a young age. Jaimie, with her simple mind, couldn't imagine anyone deliberately doing harm-- but me, I could hardly bring myself to see anyone doing good.
END

Comments are welcome, but not required.

Out of It... And Getting Back Into It

It's been more than a year since I spent much time on short stories.  And almost as long since I paid much attention to the ever-changing landscape of short mystery/crime fiction markets.

No, this is not a post on why.  This is a post on lamenting how much work it seems like it's going to be to get back up to speed.  I have a new short story that I finished and polished up that is ready for a home.  But I don't even know where to begin looking at markets.  Most of my old-standby's are long gone.

I admit also having some of that new-writer trepidation, afraid that my work isn't going to be good enough.  It has been a good long while since I wrote and submitted anything new.  (And everything I did submit in the past year was soundly rejected.)  

It doesn't help that story in question is one of those hard-to-classify the sub-genre shorts.  It's a Bo Fexler story, of course.  I don't think it's either crime fiction or a mystery.  Just a 550 word short story that's maybe a little noir-- with a hot female detective as the lead character.  

It feels like I'm starting over, but I still have that taste of success from those two years where Bo Fexler was strutting her stuff through so many of the mystery & crime zines. 

Bad Girls

It's not uncommon at all for so-called "good girls" to want to save those "bad boys." There's also the interminable, and for many women, undeniable appeal of the bad boy who does what he wants and lives by his own rules. (Hey, don't look at me. I snagged one of the "nice guys.")

But what about bad girls? What about the girl that you might not want to bring home to mother? The one who makes her own rules, especially about (gasp!) sex. I'm not thinking guys have any of the desire to save the bad girl. She is, ultimately, about the fun for now.

Of course, I do think that those bad girls-- or their lesser counterparts, the spunky, feisty, or "independent" women-- have a much harder time finding long term relationships, even as they begin to mellow. Their spunk makes them fun and exciting, different and enjoyable, but like the bad boy, she's not long term relationship appeal.

Now, this is different in fiction. Those bad girls of fiction are always fun. There're few, if any, of the relationship problems that will come up with a strong willed person who does things solely by their own rules. But we don't really want to see these strong women settle down with a nice man (or woman) do we? We certainly wouldn't expect that from a 'bad boy.'

I admit that the whole romance/ settling down thing that always creeps into so many female-lead stories always drives me nuts. I want to continue reading books with butt-kicking bad girls. Not nest-building and babies.

Not that I'm worried about any long-term relationships with Bo at the moment. First I need to get the series launched.  Then, Bo and I are going to have some fun. 

The Sound of Pen on Paper

Or, more accurately, the sound of the keys on my old keyboard.

While there's been a lot of keyboard clicks lately, there have not, however, been words added to any piece of fiction for over 2 months now. I'm kind of embarrassed to admit it, especially since I've always been a big proponent of writing regularly, even if it's only a little bit.

I have reasons and excuses. Some are physical-- such the time-sucking adventure that is known as homeownership. Some are mental-- such as a crippling wave of low self-confidence.

I miss writing. I miss Bo Fexler. I am continually hoping to get more writing in, one way or the other. I know I need to improve my habits, get into a better routine, and make progress, even if it's only little bits. Next semester I have a different schedule, which I'm hoping will afford me just a little more time-- the time needed, I hope, to return to writing as a habit.

I have some new ideas for improving the novel I'm in the middle of. Things that will straighten out a few niggling problems.

But more than hope is needed-- I must make that push, that change and begin to write again. It's the only way that Bo Fexler will see print.

The mystery book section needs some shaking up-- some one modern and appealing to younger readers. Something new and different. Maybe I'm concieted, but I think the mystery book section needs some young, hot women running around. And I've got one just waiting for her chance. As soon as I finish an acceptable first novel.

Novels don't write themselves, though, anymore than dishes wash themselves or clothes hang themselves in the closet.

Finally!

New Bo Fexler short story, Hit Women, up today at Beat to a Pulp. The story starts with Bo getting her ass kicked-- so what's she do about it? Check it out.

I wouldn't want to get on her bad side.

And I have to admit, I love the idea of a hit man being a woman...
(Yes, I love the Kill Bill movies.)

Creepy Crawly!

I'm not easily creeped out by things. I'm the designated household spider killer... Hubby's a complete arachnophobe. And he's not too fond of other things with spindly legs.

Unless it's crawling on me, I'm not usually too bothered. Oh, I'll kill any creepy crawly that confuses my habitat with one where crawlies are welcome. But they don't give me the willies.

Except this guy. Oh man, I had that crawly sensation on my arms and legs half the night after spotting him in the bathroom. I had never seen one of these in my not-quite-thirty years in Michigan.

And when I tried to squish him, half his legs came off, but he bolted. The legs that came off wiggled on the ground. I found where the rest of him went to and squished him again. And his kept writhing. (Heebie jeebies!)

I could barely sit at my comptuer (feeling phantom crawlies on me) to try and research the thing. I didn't even know where to start. What WAS it?

Well, I found it (love google). It's a House Centipede. Apparently it's very common. Really? Nearly thirty-years of Michigan living, yet I've never seen one of these. I've seen just about every other type of creepy crawly-- from Harverstmen to all sizes of ants to roly polies.

Also on my short list of things that just creep me right the hell out are lobster heads (with beady little eyes) and crawling in the attic with my mice and bats. I have to spend weeks psyching myself up to get into the attic, and no sooner than I reach the top of the ladder, and my legs are already shaking something awful. And that was before I knew my house has House Centipedes.

So far, Bo's not creeped out by anything. She does have one nasty phobia of her own, but nothing like getting the heebie jeebies from a stupid bug. She's too cool for that. ;-) Or maybe she just keeps better hold of rational thoughts in regards to small, creepy, and squishable.

What creeps you out?

Wait for it...

I'm making great progress on a new Bo Fexler novel. Already 10k into it in seven days. Cool.

The plot is chugging along nicely, with the pieces falling into place faster than I can write them at the moment. This is much nicer than those stories where plotting comes slow, hard, and painful.

But there's a problem. Not a huge problem, per se. Part of it can be easily remedied in revisions. See, Bo's investigating this case, but she's not really THERE. As in, the snark is missing, as is her commentary. Easy to fix on revision, but it's a little bothersome to be writing a story where the star character isn't really engaged in the story. Though, to be fair, she's just had her apartment burned down, taking with it nearly everything she owned. She's a little rattled and understandably so.

The other part of the problem is a noticable lack of sex or violence. I'm 10k in and there's nary a boob in sight and no one's gotten punched, kicked, or shoved. It's kind of strange. I look back over what I've written and the way the story has played out so far, there's really not much I can to do add those two characteristics. Maybe a little bit, here or there, but not much. Not without distorting or destroying what I happen to think is a solid storyline.

Now, I have every intention of including sex and violence as the book progresses, but it just isn't showing up early.

I wonder how fans of Bo Fexler will feel about that. How long can I hold you in suspense, waiting for a blow of either type? I don't mean to tease... well, not really. Not this time. Will you forgive me the wait if I make sure it's good?

A New Bo Fexler Story

The short story "Least Favorite Son" is up at Darkest Before the Dawn this morning. A missing tree stand, a neighborhood feud, and, as the title suggests, a Least-Favorite Son.

This story has a piece of character development that is of great, recurring interest to me. I'm fascinated by who a person becomes-- because of, or in spite of, their past. Does the Least-Favorite Son try, still, desperately to gain affection? Or does he pretend he doesn't care? Or, a third option, does he try to return the favor of years of hurt?

Oh, one last note on this story-- it was inspired by a true case in my local paper. I ripped this story out of the police blotter some time ago. All the police blotter had was the bit about the missing tree stand. Without any witnesses or leads, the case was closed. That didn't seem right to me, so, fictionally, I reopened the case and solved it. ;-)

Anyway, enjoy the story. I've got a few others out on submission, so there is hope for new Bo Fexler short stories in the coming weeks and months.

One of the Bookless

Over at Bookspot, I'm the bookless in today's Interview with the Bookless.

Complete with a short excerpt from the first Bo Fexler novel, "Sex and Violence."

Keeping up with Myself

I started a new novel this week. Starring Bo Fexler, of course. I've burned down her apartment and left her standing in the parking lot without any pants on.

Not only is this novel off to a good start, it's moving quickly, with little pieces of the plot falling into place so nicely.

The only problem is that I can't keep up with myself. I can't churn out prose fast enough to fill in those plot points that have floated serenely to me through the last few days. I just don't have the time to push through that many words in a day.

Gotta go. I have a story that can't wait to be written. With a half-naked protagonist.

What I Learned from the Writer I Used to Be, Part 2

I went to a very average high school in a mostly rural area. It was a school that didn't seem to understand that it was no longer 1972 and they were no longer a small school in a small town. Suburbia had moved in and the class of 2000 was a big one. (I was part of the oft-overlooked class of 1999. We also felt gypped because we were NOT the special class of 2000.)

Why dies this matter-- it's how I explain my BOREDOM in school. I was bored stiff in my classes and since I wasn't allowed to work on homework from, say math, in English class, I put a couple sheets of paper on my desk and wrote. Looks like I'm taking notes... or something. No teachers hassled me-- not even the one that threatened to take away the book I was reading.

It was in high school that I started writing seriously. Well, "seriously." As a mere fourteen and fifteen year old, I was very serious about being a writer. But I had a long way to go to even possibly being a published writer.

The first thing I had to learn was that one does not just publish Star Wars (fan) fiction. Usually tie-in writers are already established. But in the mean time, I had written five 60-70k word novels. During class, mainly.

One of the big things I learned when I finally moved on from Star Wars fan fic was that, while it's okay to love your protagonist, it's not okay to make them all-wonderful, all-adored and have all the characters gushing over the protagonist. Heh. Yeah...

I also learned that climaxes are hard to write. Later I would learn that I had never fully understood what a climax was! Ooooohhh... that makes a difference. No teacher had been able to explain it well enough for me to understand. Ironically, it was when I was student teaching that I realized I had better understand what I was trying to teach. That was when I studied like hell and finally found a definition of climax that clicked in my peculiar little brain.

I never understood climax being the "high" point of the story. (The page looks the same height as the rest of the book...) But it makes sense to me that the climax is the turning point.

It's kind of like the day that I finally made sense of the phrase "Shooting fish in a barrel. I knew it was synonymous with easy. Then I realized... I bet those fish aren't *swimming* they're packed in like folks would do on a boat or dock back in the day. That'd make it pretty damn hard to miss shooting the fish...

I was still in high school when I began the first Bo Fexler story. She was sidelined for a while while I worked on a piece of historical fiction. But she came back even more bad assed.

She started with the idea: How might a woman turn out if she was saddled with the (very masculine) name Bo? And what sort of parents would name their daughter Bo? I decided she'd be a bit bitter. But memorable. Her last name has an X in it because I was sixteen and X's are cool, if infrequently used, letters.

(One of the rare notebooks with collage cover I made.)

The Bo Fexler of today is a very different character than she was when I started writing her in high school. Of course, I'm also a much different character than I was when I was first writing Bo Fexler.

What's your favorite high school memory? (This is mine!) Or when did you start writing for publication versus just for fun?

Lay and Lie

The short story by this name is now up at Twist of Noir. This little story originally appeared at DZ Allen's MuzzleFlash.

Sex and lies. And some wordplay.

I'm glad this story got to come out into the light again. I'll be dusting off some other reprints, too.

I've been working on a couple stories lately, though none of them flash fiction. Flash fiction is a beast of a whole different type. Those ideas tend to come to me fully formed, ready to slam down on paper.

But flash fiction just hasn't been in my brain in a while. Perhaps a consequence of working so long on novels last year (finishing Novel #1 and starting Novel #2). Or maybe I'm just tapped out on flash. At least my muse has tossed me a couple other ideas. Longer ones. I thought one of them was a flash fiction idea, but so far, when I try to pour it into that size glass, it just spills all over the damn place. Either I'm writing it wrong, or it's just not flash fiction.

The story will always determine how long it's supposed to be. It's important to listen to what the story says.

Another Bo Fexler Story

Bo Fexler has made her first appearance in the new zine Crooked. You can click here for the PDF of Crooked #2 with my short story "Black and Pink and Blond All Over."

This is a longer one, but I think it's worth it. It's got a car chase, some seduction, and some clever investigation by a woman who's as smart as she is sexy. Another typical Bo Fexler story.

And while you're there, don't forget to check out the other stories. Patti Abbott's got one in this issue of Crooked. And she always writes great shorts.

Hey, look! It's a story!

It's been a long long time, but finally there's another new Bo Fexler story out. Yellow Mama's latest issue includes "Mighty Maids Mystery."

A maid is found dead in one of the houses she's cleaning. Can Bo figure out who did it? Well, of course. It's more a matter of how she finds out and who's behind it.

I miss Bo as much as the rest of you. She's been out on hiatus for a while. I'm hoping she'll be back for Christmas. Bo in a Santa hat... now there's something to find under the tree. ;-)

Writing Characters

Some characters come to me fully formed, ready for action. Bo Fexler strolled onto the page quite a few years ago-- she was pretty much as she is now. Tall, blond, sexy. She became more sexy, and more willing to use sex as time went on. (I also went from being a high school kid to a married woman in that time period... ;)

Other characters are less distinct, more malleable. They let me push them and prod them into the role they need to play. Many of my secondary and minor characters are this way. I'll change their job or their motivation and they'll just shrug and go along with it.

Someone asked me the other day, why Bo had a speech impairment. That, to some smacks of "Mary Sue." I don't know why Bo has a speech impairment. She always had one. It makes her reticent, a trait that is useful for a private eye. But beyond that, I have no explanation. That's just who Bo is. I could no more write her another way than I could write her as being short and dark haired.

Sometimes, I write the story. Sometimes, the story writes itself. Neither is inherently better. I can make up crap just as well as a plot line can go bust without help. But it does make me sound a little more crazy than normal.

Tease

Patti Abbott has a Flash Fiction Challenge.

750 words.

One of the lines to use in the challenge is "Call no woman respectable unless she's dead."

I've used that line. Or rather Bo has.

Come back October 20th.

• Query Status: 19 queries, 2 partial requests, 1 partial rejection, 12 rejections
• Novel #2 Progress: 14k (yes, I went down. alot. =(
• Current Song: I kissed a Girl by Katy Perry
  

Bo Shorts

Not so short that it would show anything off it she bent over... but there's a short story over at Mysterical-E in their Fall issue.



The story is "Family Affairs of Adult Children." It comes in just under 9k, so make sure you have time to finish.



No matter how old we get, we're still our parent's kids. For better or for worse.





Sometimes it's interesting to muse over the ways my own parents have affected me-- directly, indirectly, intentionally, or perhaps even unintentionally.



One example: being late. My folks are always late-- always have been-- to everything. Now that I am in control of my own car and schedule and such, I am always early. Always.



I live about twenty minutes from the school where I teach. I leave 40 minutes before I have to get there-- incase of traffic or other such unexpected delays. Usually, I get there with twenty minutes before class starts. Better that than being late-- at least for a quiet mouse like myself.

For Potential New Fans

Bo Fexler has a few fans that I know of-- and I love every one of you! But one of the things I've been chewing over while driving back and forth to work is how to best introduce Bo to potential new fans.

She's not the most warm, loving character. And she uses sex to get what wants. There will be some people for whom this will probably be a turn off before they get past page one. For some people, the mere mention of bedroom activities is enough to put down a book. I accept that. (Fools!)

But there are others for whom the context of such naughty activities is more important. Perhaps I can get them to overlook this trait of Bo's by showing that there's more to Bo than a sexy dame who uses her body because she can.

That also started me thinking about why, exactly, Bo uses sex and in what situations. An amusing character study, especially the part during the hour I sat on I-96 while traffic came to a dead stop.

So, now I have a better understanding of why Bo does what she does. The other problem is how to introduce snippets of that, along with introducing Bo, introducing the investigation, and not bogging down in the first couple chapters of my first, as yet-unrepresented-first-novel.

I've finally come to the conclusion that there is way too fucking much to try to do in the first couple chapters. I'm not sure what can give-- character or plot. Since Bo's such a difficult character, I'm leaning towards slowing the plot at bit at the start to introduce her and show that there's something more than a sexy, manipulative woman.

Your thoughts?