Liz Jasper on "Behind the scenes of developing a hero."

Star Wars. The Wizard of Oz. Harry Potter and…whatever he's up to in a given book. The Mrs. Pollifax mysteries. I love settling down with stories like these, about a regular, often discounted, person who is thrust into a strange new world full of wonderful and terrible challenges. Instead of falling apart, our hero or heroine rises to the occasion by being…themselves. I love that-- as a reader. But as a writer?

The funny thing about writing stories like this, at least for me, is that when it comes to that critical stage where our hero or heroine meets the wise old guru who knows what the protagonist needs to do to defeat the villain, I can't help but think, "Instead spouting the usual cryptic mumbo jumbo, why don't you just tell them what they need to do and save us all a lot of angst?"
Of course, if you do that, there'd be no story. And thus another promising adventure goes into the To Be Finished drawer, for a second life as author's guilt. ("I really should finish that great story I started…")

I've written or thought up dozens of stories, only to get stuck on this point. Until now. Until I became the wise guru in a real life drama, which I'll call Feline World War Three: The battle of the dining room table.

I recently moved and my cat, Fuzzy, came with me. (No, I did not name her.) The house we moved into already has a cat, Tum Tum (I didn't name her, either). Tum Tum is fourteen pounds of furry black affection-- and she is not pleased that another cat is muscling in on her tummy rubbing time with her humans. The moment Fuzzy enters the room, Tum Tum turns into a shrieking banshee. As best I can translate cat shrieks, she is saying, "Get out! Interloper! Interloper! My house! My house! Go! Go! Go!) The fact that Fuzzy is twice her age, half her size, and has zero interest in any human affection is beside the point.

Now, Fuzzy can pretty much take care of herself. It's actually a little embarrassing to watch Tum Tum (aka The Giantessa) repeatedly get her butt kicked by this wee grey-striped cat. I always thought that expression, the fur went flying, was overdone until I actually saw it in action. Neither cat ever gets hurt or even scratched, but there are hunks—HUNKS-- of black Tum Tum fur all over the place. I have to vacuum every day or the carpet looks like dalmatian fur.

It's not the vacuuming I object to (well…) but the fact that Fuzzy is sick and doesn't need the stress of constantly defending herself. And there's the disquieting reality that one of Tum Tum's huge claws, if it ever reached Fuzzy, could take off her tiny head.
The thing is, getting back to my point about being the wise guru in this battle, Fuzzy could completely avoid being stalked by Tum Tum if only she went up. That's all she has to do. Jump up onto something. Tum Tum can't jump worth squat. She is barely able to pull herself the eighteen inches up onto the couch.

And yet, what does Fuzzy do when Tum Tum comes in the room, looking for a fight? She promptly jumps down to hide under something. Something worthless, like a chair where any idiot can see her.

I want desperately to communicate to Fuzzy that all she needs to do is stay on the bookshelf or the table top or whatever she's napping on. But I can't. It is something she will have to figure out for herself.

And that is why, in the Wizard of Oz, Glinda can't just tell Dorothy to wish herself home the second those ruby slippers appear on her feet. It is only at the end of her journey that Dorothy can hear and understand.

You can't tell someone what they need to hear until they are ready. Sometimes they need to find it out for themselves. I just hope, in my situation, Fuzzy figures it out before Winter. It's cold in our house and Tum Tum's going to need her fur.

Liz Jasper is the author of the award winning cozy vampire mystery UNDERDEAD. Visit her at her website: www.lizjasper.com. If you are in the LA area on Sunday, visit Liz at the Anaheim Convention Center in the Sisters In Crime booth where she'll be signing copies of Underdead.