There's a balance to writing fight scenes. I used to write overly technical fights, with blow-by-blow descriptions of every move.
The problem was that my fight scenes read more like a technical manual than a fight. I discarded using terms that might be unfamiliar to my readers and concentrated on the feel of the fight. The rush of adrenaline, the hyper-focus, the occasional teasing to psych out an opponent.
I think my fight scenes are much better now than when I started writing this series. Here is an excerpt from my work in progress to show my current style:
The first attacker came at me with swift steps, arms up to grab. Standard Judo opening, easy to predict.
I jumped, clearing his six-foot height by several inches. Instead of landing behind him, I timed my jump to let me land on his shoulders. The coarse cloth of his Judogi gave me good purchase.
He jerked and shifted, but I maintained my balance. He was a sturdy kid; my weight didn’t seem to affect him.
“I saw an Australian guy in a movie do this with sheep,” I taunted. “I thought it would be harder.”
He tried to grab my ankle, but I sensed his move in time to raise that leg, then he tried to grab my other ankle, only to have the same happen.
Then he tried crossing both arms and simultaneously grabbing at both my ankles. I jumped straight up in time to make him miss his grab, twisted in mid-air so I was facing the same direction as him, and slammed my weight down on his shoulders again. He nearly fell from the force, but staggered and caught his balance.
He snarled in frustration and looked up.
“Hey, no looking up my skirt, buster!”
He jerked his gaze away from my nether regions and tried the two-ankle grab again, with the same results.
He tried a forward roll onto his left shoulder. Normally a dangerous move, as I could end up on his back for a choke, but he was desperate and embarrassed.
Just the way I like my men.
He added a spin to avoid my drop. I could have driven my heels into his chest and cracked ribs. Instead, I landed on my toes and kicked him to add to his spin.
He ended up slamming against a wall ten feet away, cracking his head against the concrete.
He shook his head dizzily and tried to rise. His eyes had that recently concussed look. I gave him my werewolf stare, the one I used on an opponent to warn that I wouldn’t be so forgiving if they attacked again. He tapped the mat in submission and dropped his aching head to the floor.
My next attacker, a long-limbed African American, moved in, using moves I hadn’t faced before. Lots of swinging arms and legs. Then he performed a jump with a spinning wheel kick, which I dodged.
“Capoeira?” I guessed.
He grinned around his mouth guard, then did a front flip, pushing off with his hands to aim a callused heel at my forehead.
I dodged to my right, hoping he would be unbalanced from his kick, but he was very good. He turned the kick into a landing and used the momentum to snap out a bone-bruising kick with his left leg at my side.
I blocked with my forearm and back peddled quickly, while rubbing my bruised arm. His long legs and those jumping kicks gave him a reach advantage that made my normal moves useless.
“This isn’t fair, you know,” I said.
“Then tap out and take your beating,” he taunted.
“I mean, it’s not fair to you,” I snapped. “If I do those same moves without panties, I’ll flash everyone, and no one will see how I beat you.” It was prattle, the taunting I had always used to distract opponents.
I waited for his eyes to dart down at the mention of my lack of panties, but he didn’t bite. Either too professional or uninterested in women.
He feinted a few times, I dodged, and he grew more confident. Confident in his skill and superior reach.
Overconfident. The other way I like my opponents.
That's the first part of the fight. There's lots more to come. As the book progresses, I'll be dropping some more excerpts into my emails. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think of the excerpts.
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