Baby You Can Drive My Car

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: One of my smallest skills is--driving. I am a really bad driver. I have no depth perception, and no patience, and I'm too nice. Which means timid. My drivers ed teacher once told my mother that the only reason he'd take me on the road is that he had his own brake, it wasn't his car, and the high school had insurance. Seriously.

      Oh!  And my father made me buy my first car by myself. Do the deal on your own, he said, with his one absolute warning. He said: You tell them you will not pay for Taxes and Title. Never never never.

      I had no idea. I said, sure. And  when the dealer tried to charge me for T and T, I refused, utterly refused, until they relented.  (I was 18).

       I went home all proud, and my father said-- "I never said TAXES! You HAVE to pay Taxes, honey!  I said TAGS and title. TAGS!" 

  Sigh.  What did I know.  But I had my first car, a little black Chevette. Which I had mistakenly thought was navy blue, and so it goes.

        Anyway--choosing a car for my characters, though. THAT I realized was important. Charlotte McNally has a buzzy sporty Jeep. That works. Jane Ryland has an Audi TT convertible--which becomes a bitterly frustrating extravagance when she gets fired.

       Choosing your character's car is a big deal. It means something, telegraphs something.  As the wonderful debut author David Burnsworth explains.        

   

Sleuth-Mobiles   

by David Burnsworth

While I love spending time at my desk killing people on the page, my true passion is automobiles. From the earliest time I can remember, I have always loved them.  Picture books with cars or trucks automatically received more of my interest and mom most likely used that trait to get me to read more.  A book I remember reading with her before bed when I was about six focused around a truck driver making deliveries.

This seems to have carried over into my writing. Selecting what my characters drive is as much a part of their personality as what they wear or how they react to situations. I had a lot of fun choosing rides for all the players in my first book, envisioning the different scenes as mini movies.

Some might call this profiling or cliché, but the vehicle choice should not be a detail that takes the reader out of the story because it doesn’t fit the character. For example, Brack Pelton, the protagonist in my first book, Southern Heat, is an Afghanistan War Veteran and ex-race car driver. His car of choice is a new Mustang GT.

 He won’t willingly drive an economy car, although he ends up having to. Not that there is anything wrong with economy cars, they just don’t fit his profile. Same with putting a high-powered lawyer-type in a clapped out hooptie—it doesn’t work. Also in the book, Brack’s lawyer’s steed of choice is big, expensive, and German. Like movies, the wrong prop could really wreck a scene.

The car becomes an extension of who they are, even if it is not the focus of the story. And I’m happy to say that I picked up this trait from some of my favorite writers. James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux drives a pickup with a toolbox welded in the bed. Dave’s sidekick, Clete Purcel, drives a classic Caddy convertible. 

Lee Child’s Jack Reacher hitchhikes or takes the bus. Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch now drives a Mustang, but he used to drive unmarked cruisers. Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt has a collection of classics to choose from. (Thank you, Clive!) John Sanford’s Lucas Davenport drives a Porsche and a Lexus SUV. In his latest work, Sanford gives the antagonist several vehicles and explains the relevance behind one in particular. All these character rides, or lack-there-of, are part of a long list of elements that help define them.

When I read a story, I really enjoy when the vehicle fits the character. Even the minor ones. The importance of this depends, of course, on the genre and who the target reader is. If the writing is good, I won’t put the book down just because the car is, in my opinion, wrong for the part. Or if the cars are generic. It’s just one of those little details that helps solidify the personality and keeps me engaged. And keeping the reader engaged is what I as a writer am after.

HANK: This makes me realize--except for the Lincoln Lawyer, I'm not quite sure what any main character drives. Does Kinsey Millhone drive a VW Bug? Who else drives what? And--what was YOUR first car?

(And I am thrilled to give a copy of  SOUTHERN HEAT to one lucky commenter!) (US only, please.)

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David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel. Southern Heat is his first mystery. Having lived in Charleston on Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife, along with their dog, call South Carolina home. 

SOUTHERN HEAT
    Gunshots echo down an antebellum Charleston alley. Brack Pelton, an ex-racecar driver and Afghanistan War veteran, witnesses the murder of his uncle, Reggie Sails. Darcy Wells, the pretty Palmetto Pulse reporter, investigates Reggie's murder and targets Brack. 
      The sole heir of his uncle's estate, Brack receives a rundown bar called the Pirate's Cove, a rotting beach house, and one hundred acres of preserved and valuable wetland along the Ashley River. A member of Charleston's wealthiest and oldest families offers Brack four million dollars for the land. 
      All Brack wants is his uncle's killer. From the sandy beaches of Isle of Palms, through the nineteenth-century mansions lining the historic Battery, to the marshlands surrounding the county, Southern Heat is drenched in the humidity of the lowcountry.