Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know about Real Police Work: PTSD

By David Lane Williams

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This month, I thought I’d write about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as it applies to first responders. I went back and forth about taking on such a serious topic, but my job in this column is to help you comprehend people like me so you can better understand the characters you’re creating. I just took a few deep breaths, and my head is right. Let’s dive in.  

I’ve been streaming The Pitt, a series set in a woefully short-staffed, often hostile, and always overcrowded emergency room in Pittsburgh. Each season tells the story of a single shift in a place where tragedies and miracles happen every hour, and the medical staff is composed of naïve rookies and burning-out veterans. It is a glorious series that has been in my head since the first episode.  

Other than taking a few unnecessary potshots at cops, it felt so real and accurate for me. It took me back to the glory and gore, the terror and elation in those early days working in Austin when AIDS didn’t even have a name yet, and gang violence swamped swaths of the city.

Our “Pitt” was Brackenridge Trauma Center—Brack—and this show hit those old vibes with an accuracy I’ve rarely seen in medical dramas. I experienced adrenaline dumps at some points, heartache at others. I became choked up during some scenes, glad to be alone with just my dogs and all those memories. One of the characters made a comment about crying: “Tears are just grief leaving the body.”

Amen. 

I don’t know a single police officer, paramedic, or firefighter who doesn’t have some emotional scarring after a few years on the job. Like a combat veteran, the carnage and cruelty can get to you after a while. Multiply that times a twenty, thirty, or longer-year career, and there is little to no chance of escaping without some damage. If you’re going to write about veteran first responders, you have to understand that this is part of the story. It doesn’t have to be front and center all the time, but your cop protagonist has a demon inside his brain, and the demon is always whispering. 

The trick is to learn coping skills, the earlier the better. It can be a nightmare if you don’t. Depression, anxiety, and suicide are all facets of the equation. Careers and marriages are cut short, and officers who had always performed rock-solid in the past make rash, bad decisions. 

I’ve always considered myself lucky. My symptoms include some mild anxiety when in public. People close to me notice that I look over my shoulder as I walk through a parking lot and scan the tops and higher windows of buildings. If I sleep on my back, I have nightmares of being attacked or of drowning, so I always place a pillow on either side of me in bed to stop from rolling supine in the middle of the night. I probably check door locks more than necessary, and I use cameras and motion-sensor lights around the perimeter of my house. 

Despite this, I still consider myself an optimist. While I harbor concerns about some humans, I remain hopeful for humanity. I believe our evolutionary path is leading inevitably toward a new species I like to call Homo Pacificus— Peaceful Man. I’m realistic we’re not there yet, but I believe our descendants will make us proud—even as they wonder how the hell we survived one another. 

I know cops who take a pistol with them into the bathroom and shower. They eat family dinners with one strapped to their ankle, and they get almost frantic if their wife forgets the family rule about always being on his off-hand side as they walk in public. They tend not to associate with others outside their police family because they have serious trust issues. 

Part of this trauma is related to specific cases. Perhaps the nightmares come from the images of destroyed children or a body charred in a house fire. Maybe the pain lingers from seeing a teenage girl ripped in two from a car wreck or a mother who committed suicide during a post-partum depression crisis. Maybe it’s from having to tell one too many parents that their child is never coming home again.

Irrational fear and anger can come from too many people treating the officer like the enemy or Satan for doing their job. Imagine starting a career with ambition and a passion to help, only to find you are not trusted or appreciated, and often despised. 

Then, of course, there are the life-shaking moments when someone tries to shoot you or gets the better of you in a deadly street fight. Winston Churchill is quoted as saying, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without results.” 

He’s right. It’s thrilling to survive a close brush with death, but weeks, months, or years later, the thrill is gone, replaced with jagged nerves and trembling hands. It’s trauma, and it’s real, and it’s prevalent. 

So, how do first responders cope? Some, too many, crawl into a bottle or seek relief through opioids. Others live at the gym, where every rep of every set is a struggle just to keep the demon exhausted, so sleep will finally come. Some take the stress out on their spouses and kids, and others become hermits except when they’re on duty. 

Culturally, PTSD is kept at bay with dark humor. People who have died violently—especially those who were doing something stupid at the time—can be targets of the most obscene jokes back at the station. Someone who died in a fire is a “crispy critter,” and a motorcycle rider without a helmet is an “organ donor.” The only joke territory considered off limits is children. 

I know how appalling this sounds, but that obsidian-dark humor may be the most reliable and effective means of keeping more cops from hurting themselves and others. If you’re writing about a first responder, bleak humor has to be part of the package. Humor bonds first responders, and sarcasm can keep them sane.

As I mentioned, I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a knack for putting bad thoughts in a file cabinet and closing the drawer. As I write this, I know that comes off as denial. I think of myself, however, as an empathetic human being who wants everyone to be safe and feel safe. That can’t always happen, so my ability to put sad or tragic thoughts away for a while has been beneficial. I know there are therapists and care providers out there who just groaned. I’m aware that shutting haunting thoughts deep into the recesses of my mind might not be the best long-term practice, yet I could also argue it has worked well in my life for four decades. 

I used to carry a little bottle of soap bubbles in my duty jump bag. The kind kids blow at birthday parties. Sometimes I’d pull into a secluded area such as a park or an empty drive-in theater when all the filmgoers had gone home. I would then stand outside my car and blow bubbles, watching them rise and fade in the dark. This practice had a way of taking the edge off whatever stress I’d been fighting. Four, five, maybe six bubble blows later, I’d be ready for whatever the Dispatch Center sent me on next. I never shared this with my colleagues—no one needs a nickname like “Bubbles” in a police squad room—but it was a coping mechanism that worked for me. 

I continue to be proactive in retirement. I exercise six to seven days a week, and I only hang around with people who are healthy, balanced, and humorous. Writing is about the best medicine for me. I don’t self-medicate with opioids, and I am not much of a drinker. I have a wife who cares about me, checks in, and listens. My veteran sons understand me about as well as anyone could, and I am surrounded by family and friends who I know will always be by my side. 

I believe PTSD is like sludgy sewage that has been dumped into a river. It is awful and destructive, but given time, coupled with being around good people and action designed to mitigate the pollutants, the river can clear the toxins. 

Your protagonist has PTSD in some form—why do you think there are so many alcoholic private detectives out there in noir land? I am convinced that writers who keep this in mind create deeper and far more interesting characters. 

And just in case you were thinking about having your guy blow bubbles, I’ve already called dibs on that one.  

Onward.

The Writer’s Playbook: Interview Your Characters

By Steven Harms

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To start, calculators down.

Now answer the following:
What is three times three?
Ten times seven?
Nine times two?
And, to finish this little exercise, what is eighty-five times forty-six? Take your time.

Hopefully you nailed the final answer. You may be asking what this has to do with being an author? Read on.

In the spring of 1985, I was two years into my first job at the Detroit Pistons. Around that same time, in my hometown of Milwaukee, Wisconsin something occurred that got my attention. The Milwaukee Bucks of the NBA had recently been purchased by Herb Kohl – I’ll get to him in a moment – and I felt the opportunity to return home was worth an inquiry. New ownership of a pro team generally comes with a slate of changes on the business side to align with a new owner’s vision and desire for how they want the place to operate. I wasn’t wrong. I sent a letter of inquiry to the president of business operations of the Milwaukee Bucks, not expecting a reply.

Two weeks later I received a call from John Steinmiller, introducing himself and asking that I come to Milwaukee for an interview. The role was a new position, and the person they were seeking would be responsible for building the sales team and crafting the external sales strategy.

I was flown in the following week and met with John. Our discussion went well, and I was excited to put it mildly. The opportunity would advance my career to the next level. As John wrapped our interview, he informed me that the new owner, Herb Kohl, would also like to meet with me one-on-one.

Who’s Herb Kohl? Perhaps you’ve shopped at Kohl’s. That was Herb’s family business, begun by his father in 1924. Kohl’s began as a grocery chain in the Milwaukee area before adding department stores beginning in 1962, eventually selling it all off in 1979. Herb Kohl purchased the Bucks in 1985 to prevent the team from exiting Milwaukee, in line with his community mindedness, which eventually led to him becoming a U.S. Senator, representing Wisconsin for twenty-four years. That’s the man I now sat across from in his spacious office at a top floor of Milwaukee’s tallest building.

The interview with him was straightforward – my background, schooling, sales experience with the Detroit Pistons, family, goals, and a few other traditional interview topics. Herb was a soft-spoken person, palpably gracious, and he made me comfortable as we chatted. Somewhere amid that interview, completely out of the blue, he asked me that final math question at the top of this article. Stone cold. No pivot. I can’t recall the exact digits, but you get the idea. To this day, I remember Herb said, “Take your time.” It was a jolt. I recall thinking that I was about to blow the interview and wouldn’t get the job. But I figured out quickly how to process the problem and answered it correctly. He then tossed me two more of similar nature. I passed all three. In the end, I landed the job.

My length of service with the Bucks lasted four years before I moved to New York City for my next opportunity. In hindsight, I wish I had taken a moment during my time with the Bucks to ask Herb why he threw those math problems at me. I’m convinced he did so to see how I process information and how I manage myself in a stressful situation. I just never asked. I think I know the answer, at least in part, which aligns with the task we have in creating our characters and developing them.  

Every good author understands that characters tell the author what to write, not the other way around. We’re responsible for bringing the people in our stories to life, intently listening to each, being thoughtful of their backstory, and abiding by who they are as a character. Their dialogue and actions drive the plot. How those are handled by an author is critical to maintaining a compelling, authentic story.

But what happens when a scene or chapter or subplot just won’t materialize, better known as writer’s block? All authors experience that moment, some less than others, but it’s unavoidable. It will happen, probably multiple times in the process of producing a manuscript. Successfully dealing with the problem opens the door to kickstart the interrupted creative process. There are many methods, but taking a cue from Herb Kohl, consider copying his technique.

Have a conversation with the characters on what they’re thinking. Throw them a wildly incongruent question of fact or importance that is unconnected to the story and see how they respond. If their answer misses the mark, that’s alright. Now you know. If they arrive at a plausible, reasonable answer, now you know that as well. If they hem and haw and sweat, tell them to take their time and only move on after they’ve answered. That’s also informative. You now perceive facets of them you hadn’t known, which may be a key ingredient in unblocking yourself and taking your story to a higher level.

Next time you’re at a Kohl’s, or drive by one, or see one of their advertisements, think back to this article and consider the “Kohl method” of interviewing a character(s) to handle current or future writing blocks. He or she may be able to figure out the “math question” you pose. Or maybe not. Either way their strengths, weaknesses, make-up, countenance, and other previously unrevealed attributes will come to the fore.

Just one rule, though. No calculators allowed.

A Killer Voice That Makes an Impact

By Alexandrea Weis

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When you think about a rampaging murderer out to destroy his victims, what comes to mind? Most of the time, it’s their iconic voice. Imagine Candyman without the breathy and slow speech of Tony Todd or Ghostface without Rodger L Jackson’s craggy mix of sadism and insanity. Who can forget the deep, dark, dulcet tones of the Master of Macabre, Vincent Price? That’s what you want to give readers when your character speaks—a taste of their depravity.

Finding that unique resonance can be challenging, but like any diligent author, you appreciate the value of research to carve out a brilliant inflection that will capture your delinquent’s soul. Breathy, croaky, cracking, soothing, alarming can all describe a voice. Vivid comparisons can also bring the essence of someone alive in a reader’s mind. Does her breathy narration sound like a gentle breeze moving through a tree plump with the leaves of spring? Does his laugh remind you of the bray of a donkey? How a death-dealing degenerate sounds can influence what your readers take away from a scene. 

Sentence structure plays a vital role in intensifying a character’s emotions. A nervous woman convinced she’s being followed might require short, clipped phrases, imitating the twittering of a skittish bird. Or there are those long, flowery sentences that could represent the pompous police chief or dense detective who doesn’t believe the victim. Punctuation can also add impact. A frightened person’s dialogue can frequently trail off with ellipses, exemplifying their wavering train of thought. Or a brash thug might add terror to his loud, paranoid ramblings by ending everything in exclamation points.    

A voice doesn’t have to be menacing to create a shudder. An ordinary, quiet man with a somber or even childlike tone who carries out ghastly deeds can elicit chills. Think Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. A monotone, emotionless pitch can tell us more about the inner workings of a psychopath than a shrieking mother frustrated with her children. Remember the crazed computer Hal 9000 in 2001: A Space Odyssey? 

Don’t forget about the intense horror of silence. The doomed want answers before they take their last breath. Not having the solace of another’s voice could be more hair-raising than a sinister hiss or last malicious chuckle. A memorable example is the unsettling nothingness of Michael Myers as he sliced through his victims in Halloween (1987). 

You may want to design a manner of speaking that becomes your transgressor’s trademark. Police often ask survivors of violence about the voice of their attacker. Even if a victim doesn’t look at the perpetrator, they will never forget how they sounded. The way your slayer stays with those they have tormented can be as important as what they say or do. Inflections, the rise and fall of their tone, the deepness or high-pitched way they laugh, and even the pauses they give when speaking are all critical. The Grady twins from The Shining delivered their creepy invitation to Danny to come and play “forever… and ever… and ever,” scaring theatergoers.

Also, keep in mind dialects do matter. Whether it’s a southern drawl, Texas Twang, the guttural angst of New Yorkers, or the dropped Rs of Bostonians, give your killer some flare. But don’t overdo it. You want authenticity without coming across as stereotypical. Research how people speak naturally in the area you’re writing about. Go to restaurants, walk the streets, sit in coffee shops, and eavesdrop. Get a sense of rhythm and the way people talk. It will give your scoundrel depth and believability. 

Don’t forget the backstory, especially when dealing with physical or emotional traumas. A brute with a history of throat damage, whether through strangling or a sliced larynx, can have a wispy way of speaking that sets one’s teeth on edge. Damage to the mouth, either through the loss of teeth or cut nerves, can provide relevant clues to why your murderer speaks as they do. A maniac who’s suffered immense sorrow or abuse might carry the past in their voice. Cold, unemotional, lifeless tones can tell you a lot about the pain behind someone’s words. Red’s rasp in the movie US becomes even more horrific when the audience discovers rats have gnawed through her vocal cords. A cringe-worthy backstory can ramp up the fear factor.

There’s nothing more insightful than a voice. It’s the true window to one’s emotions and personality. So when creating a killer character who will leave readers mesmerized and terrified, don’t forget their distinct, haunting vocal expression. Take the time to make it compelling, and your villain will live on long after your story’s climactic ending.   

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Alexandrea Weis, RN-CS, PhD, is an award-winning author, screenwriter, advanced practice registered nurse, and historian who was born and raised in the French Quarter of New Orleans. She has taught at major universities and worked as a nurse dealing with victims of sexual assault, abuse, and mental illness in a clinical setting at New Orleans area hospitals.

Having grown up in the motion picture industry as the daughter of a director, she learned to tell stories from a different perspective. Infusing the rich tapestry of her hometown into her novels, she believes that creating vivid characters makes a story moving and memorable. The first person to give her writing advice was Tennessee Williams, a family friend. 

Weis is a member of the International Thriller Writers (ITW) and Horror Writers Association (HWA). She lives with her husband outside of New Orleans where she is a permitted/certified wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife & Fisheries and rescues orphaned and injured animals.

The Writer’s Playbook | Fan Favorites

By Steven Harms

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If you’ve followed any sport—pro, college, or youth—and whether that be a team sport (i.e., basketball) or solo (i.e., golf), there’s usually a consensus player who earns the term “fan favorite.” It’s the individual who captures the hearts of the fans, someone who isn’t necessarily the star player. In fact, I’d argue the moniker is reserved for a role player who rises above his or her perceived limitations to perform at a high level while organically baring their human side on or off the field of play. 

I used the term “earns” with purpose. In all my years in pro sports, I’ve witnessed many a player become that team’s fan favorite just by combining consistently good performance doing their specific job with a personality that endears them to the fan base. It’s not the all-star player, but rather the sub or the unglamorous player who shines. 

In Detroit, where most of my career was spent, those fan favorites were the players with that working-class approach to their job. Detroit is known as a blue-collar, hard-working, gritty, get-the-job-done town. And they love underdogs. Each market has a vibe and a role player that can capture that quality by their level of play and personality to become a star. 

The NBA enshrines such a player by honoring them with the “NBA Sixth Man of the Year Award,” an annual award to the player who is not a starter but is the best player who enters the game as a substitute and puts up the best performance over a season. Invariably, that player is a fan favorite in that player’s market. Why? He’s the role player that shines. Hollywood does the same thing with their “Best Supporting Actor” awards. The award itself is an affirmation that an amazing performance by a secondary character can win over the hearts and minds of the movie-going public.

This dynamic is true in the stories we write and read as well. In my debut novel, Give Place to Wrath, I introduced a three-headed detective team led by the main protagonist, Roger Viceroy. Viceroy dominates the book, but I gave enough spotlight to his two assistants that one of them became a surprising fan favorite—Trevor “Silk” Moreland.

Silk had the backstory in his favor. As a kid who grew up in a blighted section of Milwaukee, he was destined for basketball stardom with a full ride to Marquette University until his dreams were cut short by a bullet that destroyed his basketball career during his senior year in high school. But that unfortunate incident was also the fuse that ignited his passion for police work and honed his innate abilities to become an excellent detective. 

After the book debuted and reviews started coming in, there were a good number of people who called out Silk and how much they enjoyed his character with a few even suggesting I spin him off to his own series. I thought about it, but I also realized he resonated so much because he was a support character who authentically excelled at what he did as part of a team. 

Every story has minor characters, and at times, they’re written to bridge a gap in the story arc or serve a role to provide information or advance a particular chapter. Those characters are needed, to be sure. However, readers will instinctually gravitate to a secondary character if they are written with enough detail, given their own spotlight at times, and can showcase an authentic and relatable character trait or a backstory of overcoming their personal obstacles. They provide an ingredient that elevates the book because they tap into the charitable and empathetic side of our nature.  

I’ve seen it happen in Major League ballparks, NBA arenas, and NFL stadiums. When the fan favorite enters the game, there is a noticeable lift as the fan’s attention turns to that player and the energy and character traits he brings to the game. Win or lose, when the fan-favorite plays, the fans’ enjoyment of the game elevates because they are emotionally invested in that player.  

If an author can write a supporting character that earns an emotional connection to readers, a novel’s odds of success are simply enhanced. It’s the “fan favorite” effect. While readers are certainly intellectually involved with the protagonist, having that beloved bench player enter the game will always perk up the moment and pull a reader closer to where you want them to be–engaged and wanting to turn the page.