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L R Trovillion
a book bubble about
Horse Gods: The Dressage Rider’s Betrayal
Teens
Author Insight
Female Characters: Weak, Wicked, or Wonder Woman
Most main characters in my novels are female. Why? Maybe because I am. It gives me an edge into knowing and portraying them more realistically. But is that a good thing? In honor of International Women's Day, I've been thinking about female characters in novels. How are they portrayed? What kinds of women do we like to read about? Do we want them to be familiar and recognizable? Do we want them to be the super heroes we dream about? Or, do we want them deliciously wicked or outrageously daring? Maybe all of the above. No matter the "type" of female character, they have to have more than one dimension and that's what makes creating them fun! The three women in the opening of Horse Gods may at first strike you as hopelessly weak or totally wicked, but wait. They're going to change! What were some of your most memorable female characters?
Book Excerpt
Horse Gods: The Dressage Rider’s Betrayal
I get in the car and slam the door. Brenda takes her time tossing that suitcase bag of hers in the back before she gets in. I glare at it, slouched against the backseat. It’s full of signed papers that say I’m going to be turned over to Angela when she gets out. In three months. Like I’m her property or something. Like I’m a horse she just bought. God help me. If I were just a year and a few months older, I’d be legal. If they would just keep her in prison another year and half…
Brenda pushes the ignition button, cranks the air up a notch, and slings an arm over the back of my seat to look behind her before backing out.
That’s when I turn on her. Her face is close to mine. I can see where makeup has slid into the lines around her mouth. “Did you know about this?”
She steps on the brake and slides the gear into park.
“You must have known. Why didn’t you warn me?”
A gust of air escapes her lips, and she sits bent over like a deflated balloon.
There’s a little twinge in the bottom of my gut, and it’s telling me not to be so mean—she has my life in her hands, so to speak. I ignore it. “You’re not even going to explain to me what happened in there? You didn’t tell me she was getting out. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go live with her, which I don’t. Aren’t you supposed to ask what I want?” The thump of blood pounds in my ears.
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