Rhetorical Questions

RHETORICAL QUESTIONS
Copyright 2004, Michael LaRocca

Here's a question I ask as an avid reader. It's rhetorical,
which means you don't have to answer it. Which is convenient
when you think about it, since I won't hear you. I'm not
talking to you, I'm writing. The floor is all mine.

Why is it that when someone's in a fight, and someone hits
them hard enough, bright lights always explode behind their
eyes?

I've been clocked a time or two. Sows, boars, horses, falling
objects, falling Michael, a baseball bat, a nightstick,
footballs, basketballs, baseballs, kickballs, kung fu cousin,
a bad neighbor, the jaws of a leaping dog. And, never has
light exploded behind my eyes.

What usually happens to me at that point of impact is sensory
overload. I don't feel it when a hunk of metal pops me in the
mouth hard enough to split my lip and break my dentures and
send them across the room. (The dentures, not the lips.)
Sensory overload. Then a couple seconds later I see the
damage and think, "Dang, what happened?" But in books, it's
always those darn bright lights exploding behind people's
eyes.

My advice to authors, then, is this. Before you write a lot
of fight scenes, ask someone to punch you a few times. No,
I'm kidding. No lawsuits, please.

My real advice is, avoid the cliches. Don't say "a snowball's
chance in hell," say "a broccoli's chance in Bush One's White
House." It's original, see? And if you're going to write
about something you know nothing about, please do a bit of
research.

This isn't a rhetorical question, but rather a true story.
You know how in the comic books, whenever someone gets
popped, they see stars? I really did. Once. Readers of RISING
FROM THE ASHES know who "kung fu cousin" is. Clint. The naughty
boy. My hero. He's in this story. Naturally.

One time, when I was eleven years old, four of us decided to
play a game at Gramma's house. Clint, Dwayne, Barry, Michael.
Whenever we got together, someone wound up losing blood, and it
was always at Gramma's house.

In this game, which was safe by our standards, each of us had a
different large plastic ball. We went into the bedroom, turned
off all the lights, and threw them at each other. Something hit
me in the eye, hard, and I saw stars. Then we turned the lights
on, and I saw that I'd been hit by a kickball with stars on it.

Since there was no blood, we turned off the lights and played
some more. The next day, I had a black eye. "How'd that happen?"
Mom asked. "I dunno. I think I fell out of bed." She didn't
believe me, but she pretended she did.

To continue on with rhetorical questions, here's another one.
Who cares? Note how I ended that with a question mark. Always
do that. I see this one so much that I might add it to
"Common Writing Mistakes" one day. I don't care how many times I
see it. It's still wrong. I first had this argument in 1980 with
two fellow busboys. I'll never back down. I'm edumacated.

Next week's rhetorical question... When the ghosts appear in
the haunted house, how come nobody ever leaves? Okay, I know,
Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy have done that bit already,
but my editor still busted me on that one in THE CHRONICLES
OF A MADMAN. So, I changed it. The dude left the house. If it
were me, I would. Wouldn't you?