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All about gun writing, Part I - Guncrank diaries: excuses, alibis, pithy observations & general ephus

American Handgunner, March-April, 2004 by John Connor

Okay, we got all that philosophy and flavor and essence crap outta the way in the last issue, so I can get down to your piercing, semi-intelligent questions. First, you ask, "How do you get to be a gunwriter?"

The same way you get a busted leg,. You strut out doing something else that's interesting and a lot of fun, and then you screw up. If you're not dead, sometimes you then become a gunwriter. Try this: First, become a weapons operator. Then, go operate "em in jungles, deserts, mountains, streets and alleys. Do silly stuff like jump out of airplanes, dangle from ropes, an' kick in doors. Get shot at a lot and hit a little. Then get bent, folded, spindled an' mutilated, preferably without becoming null and void. Worked for me.

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I don't think you can just like guns, start writing, and become a gunwriter. I think you have to be lookin' the other way and get blindsided by it, like getting hit by a bus.

Next question: What the heck is a "gunwriter"? Is that different from being a "writer"? Oh, yeah ... See, a "writer" would write something like this:

The telephone dangled and then fell from Derek's trembling hand, clattering among the Hummel figurines on his French Provincial sidetable. Drawing in a shuddering breath, his mind reeled with the crude and violent threat of that, that ... that horrid person! A mounting swell of emotion crested in his soul, then broke like a storm-tossed wave on the shore of his heart, and he wept, silvery tears tracing down his pale cheeks.

"Oh, my poor, dear, dear Derek," Abigail whispered, touching her delicate hand to her alabaster breast, which fluttered like a frightened dove. There was only one thing to do: Flee to Scones-on-Avon, the family lodge at Buttersby Hill! There, on the lonely windswept moors, perhaps the demons could not find them!

Now, a "gunwriter" would write it like this:

This wimpy dude, see, he's in a jam, and he don't even plant his feet or nothin'. He just goes all gutless, throws his sucker in the dirt, an' busts out cryin' like a little girl with a skint knee. Meantime, the babe, get this, she thinks it's cool that the dude's blubberin', like he's so-o-o sensitive or something, and she's soppin' this up like country gravy, okay? Here comes trouble, see?--and not a roscoe between 'em!

Action Gun'riters

Maybe someday I'll become an "Action Gunwriter," and I'll write stuff like this:

Derek slammed the phone down, crackin' it like an egg. Never telegraph your punch, sucker! He grinned to himself. Now that he knew the What's-Up, he'd dictate the Where and When. Jamming his Springfield 1911AI into a Galco Fed Paddle, he then slipped its little cousin, a Micro-Compact, into the Yaqui Slide at his hack. With two stuffed mags already on his belt, he hesitated, then dumped two more in his jacket pockets. Somebody serves you a hot cuppa trouble, he chuckled, You bring 'em a chilled bucket of ice-cold WhupAss. He turned to Abby.

"Anything but me comes through this door, kid," he told her, "You light 'em up."

Biting her lip, fighting tears of rage, she tapped the barrel of her .40-cal Glock 23 on the hated white cast that ran from her ankle to the curve of her hip. Damn that Harley! she thought, And double-damn that loose gravel! She should be there, she knew, back-to-back with Big D when the BrownStuff hits the fan.

"None of these 155-grain Gold Dots have your name on 'em, sweetie," she pouted bravely, "They're all addressed To Whom It May Concern." He grinned wolf-like from the door.

"Who's your daddy, baby'?"--and he was gone.

Abby absent-mindedly danced the beam of her LaserMax sight on the dark ening door. She knew even if Satan himself showed up and wanted to waltz, Big D would return with the devil's tail, whacked off neatly at the base. Then he'd want to skin it out and wear it as a gunbelt. But still, she thought, and choked back another angry tear.

"Cocked, locked, and ready to rock, baby," she breathed.

Trade Secrets

See what I mean? Now, you notice the "gunwriter" writin' didn't really say much about guns? That's one of the trade secrets of gunwriting. Basically, what you do is take some opinions and observations, wrap 'em around a firearms-related fragment, and bury that ball in some word-salad. I obeyed a couple rules of the trade there.

First, I inserted a "key word" to get your attention: babe. At that point, the male readers' pupils dilated and their brains went into reptile-mode. Female readers' pupils constricted, and they kept reading to see if there was gonna be something stupidly sexist to write in and complain to the editor about. Both ways, it keeps "em reading. Next, I "painted a word picture." That was the "soppin' this up like country gravy" part. You didn't know it, but I was subtly tappin' into your subconscious to create "comfort imagery." Tricky, huh?

Then I used a non-gun word to describe a gun: roscoe. This is a Really-BigDeal part of gunwriting. I'm not sure why, but you're not supposed to use "gun" more than once in four paragraphs. I think it's part of the "mystique" business. Beats me. Note: Do NOT attempt these gunwriting techniques at home, kids. I'm a professional, workin' on a closed course.

All about gun writing, Part I - Guncrank diaries: excuses, alibis, pithy observations & general ephus

American Handgunner, March-April, 2004 by John Connor

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