Category Archives: Fiction

Story Starters, Part 3

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.”–Graham Greene

Have you ever found yourself with the wrong friends? A fur hunter in the 1800s was severely injured after a bear attack. Because one of his hunting companions didn’t want to be burdened with continuing to drag the dying man through the brutally cold, uncharted wilderness, he buried the wounded man alive. Wrong companions, riveting adventure. The Revenant is based on a true story of perseverance.

What if you felt that you were born in the wrong body? In the early 20th century, artist Einar Wegener was married to Gerda when he began to realize that he was a woman in a man’s body. With the love and encouragement of his wife, he eventually sought gender re-identification surgery to become Lili Elbe. Wrong body, passionate love story. The movie, The Danish Girl, is loosely based on a true story.

Have you ever found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time? The nine year old son of a Nazi commandant living near a Jewish internment camp approaches the camp’s wire fence and befriends an imprisoned boy his age. Eventually the Nazi’s naive son crawls under the fence to join his new friend in finding the boy’s lost mother. Wrong place, wrong time, heartbreaking fictional story. The first draft of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas was written by John Boyne in two and a half days.

What would you do if you felt an attraction to someone of your same gender? Carol, an older, soon-to-be divorced mother of one daughter, is attracted to Therese, a young salesclerk and aspiring photographer. A developing romance between the two women in the early 1950s showed the harsh consequences of their love affair. Wrong time, strained relationship. The movie, Carol, is a story based on the novel, The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith.

Have you ever questioned the word of authorities? A Nigerian forensic pathologist’s research on severe brain injuries or chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) causes an uproar in the world of American football. The National Football League questions his findings as Dr. Bennet Omalu questions the NFL’s lack of concern for its players’ wellbeing. Wrong concerns, on-going controversy. The movie, Concussion, is a true story based on the research of Dr. Bennet Omalu.

Consider now what you see as the wrong company, physique, location, relationship, focus, or any other wrong that you see in the human condition. As a writer, you can analyze, portray, or correct what you see as wrong. Don’t just think about it. Write about it. Are you game?

Hot Blacktop Ch. 7 – Test Ride – Part II

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Mature content

“Is he alright?” Sienna asked. The boy’s reaction made her heart hurt. She recognized the look in those eyes. She watched as Saint turned, kneeled and gently held the boy’s tiny biceps to stop him from shaking. Saint started to speak to the boy. She couldn’t hear what Saint said, but she saw the boy nod. His wide eyes snapped to hers. Like lightening they flashed back to Saint and the boy surprised them both.

“No!” he yelled.

Sienna jumped as the word exploded from the boy and she reached out as if to stop him, but he ripped his body away from Saint’s hands and he ran off.

She took a step forward as Saint’s gaze followed the boy running away. Saint stood up, turned to face her and she drew up short. Anger poured off him in waves. Was he mad at her?

“What’s wrong?” She took another step back.

He didn’t answer for long seconds and looked out into the dark where they could no longer see the small figure. “I don’t know,” he finally responded and turned back toward her. She sensed some deeper tension in Saint, the tautness of his body, the way his brow creased and the tightness at his mouth drew his jaw together. But in a blink, his stress faded away and he smiled.

Sienna’s breath eased out. He wasn’t mad at her. But what would it matter? She was here to call off the date. He would be mad soon enough.

Saint’s worry for the boy, Sienna could see, lay heavily on his shoulder’s still. “The boy. His name’s Danny.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve watched him slink around, going on about two weeks now. He’s shown up almost every day. This was the first time he came into the garage.” Saint shook his head and looked toward the ground with a frown on his face, then turned his gaze on hers. “Most days he sits in the bleachers.” He pointed out toward the grandstand. Saint ran his fingers through his hair, gripped hard with agitation and expelled a heavy breath.

Her stomach swirled with dismay. Danny had looked beat down, scared out of his mind. His stark and lost, pale blue eyes, for one second, when they’d latched onto hers, the light from the garage had made them shine…in fear, of her? But why?

“Where’s he going? Should we go after him?”

“Home,” he growled the word. “I wish I could go after him. After he’d come around a couple days I was curious. I tracked him back home.” He blew out a breath and he looked right into her eyes. “It’s not a good place to be, Sienna.”

The ominous words spilled Sienna into a dark corner of her past, a time before she’d met Megs.

The dilapidated house she’d considered a home with faded, chipped paint, was a placeholder. A cold, empty box of a room with a mattress that had belonged to someone else, so worn from age she rolled into the middle when she slept. It had been more cage then home. Stale odors of booze and cigarettes were like a second skin; ones she could never peel away.

Sienna rubbed her arms cold from the memory.

The good days were the ones her Dad was passed out on the couch and her Mom had holed up in her room. Though the results of beforehand was her mother curled up on her bed, her body used up, bruised and scarred, the visible proof of abuse mapped on her thin skin.

The day Sienna met Megs was the first time Sienna dared to sneak out. It was the reason she’d raced out of Hampshire’s Stop and Shop. She’d been thinking about where to hide the food so her dad couldn’t find it. She couldn’t be caught or his wrath would have been evident in the days that followed.

“You should have never been born, Sienna!”, “You’re useless, girl.”, “Get me a damn beer, that’s the only thing you’re good for.”, “I could never love someone like you! You’re pathetic, whining and crying all the time.” That was only after he’d kick her for not getting his beer fast enough.

She could hear her mother’s words, “You’re the one who drove your father to drink. For being born. For coming between him and me this is the life we get. The life we deserve. If I’d just gotten rid of you like he told me to, he’d still want me.” She was the reason her father started using his fists on her mother, the reason her mother finally left Sienna with him. She was never good enough.

Sienna was cold to the bone, though she wore an extra layer under her coat. She stared in the direction Danny disappeared. It was so much worse for Sienna, when her mother took off. Even though she said so many hateful things, Sienna was her daughter. She loved her some, right? After all these years the woman still called her occasionally. Sienna’s memories snagged her again. The last time she saw the woman it was in the parking lot of her high school. She waited in her car, but when Sienna approached, her mother took off. “Come back, Mom,” she screamed as her mother’s car got farther and farther away.

Sienna swayed on her feet, the past blurring with the present, caught by the pain that it caused in her chest. She grabbed onto the only thing in front of her, but Saint must not have noticed her dismay. He kissed her. When she was able to come up for air, she looked up into his face and a cocky smirk made his mouth twitch. She blinked, still dazed and then remembered why she’d come.

Sienna pushed away, or she tried, but Saint’s grip tightened. Crap!

“Saint? She tried to push him away, but he held on tighter. “Saint!” She was able to get him to understand she needed space, but it wasn’t a whole hell of a lot that he gave her. “We can’t do this,” she said in aggravation and crossed her arms, which was difficult because Saint still had his arms cinched tightly around her.

He frowned, then his eyes narrowed. “Stubborn woman.” Saint took her hand, ignored her physical protests and dragged her toward the garage that still blared with light, toward the only bay left open. Okay, so he didn’t exactly drag her. She went willingly, almost, even knowing she shouldn’t.

When she dug her heals in the ground, he just picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. “Put me down, you…you Neanderthal.”

“No.” His voice gave no quarter.

Sienna’s mind was a jumbled mess when he became all alpha male. Maybe if she took the stupid ride, he would leave her alone. On one hand she loved it, the way he carried her, cared for her, like she was precious in some way. Was she? On the other hand, she wanted to kick his ass for being so bossy. Although, in every encounter they’d had so far, he never let her feel like she was less. She sighed, thinking still. He had sent her all those flowers. How he found out Gerber’s were her favorites…it must have been Megs. Megan would just have to stop spilling all Sienna’s secrets. She wanted to be left alone, to wallow in her self-pity. But the notes had been sweet. So, he wasn’t very good with words. She rolled her eyes, but of course Saint couldn’t see it. By the end of the week the notes had made her blush, telling her that he wanted to kiss every inch of her skin, taste her sweet creamy breasts. She was getting hot just thinking of it.

Sienna hit him on the butt. It was all his fault she wanted him so bad, her mind cluttered with sexy images, especially the ones where all of Saints clothes miraculously disappeared. “Mmm.”

“What was that?” he asked and squeezed her derriere.

“Nothing,” she squeaked.

Inside the garage, Saint slid her down, achingly slow. Shit! Her breasts tingled against his hard chest, his grip on her ass made her want to grind her body against his. Her wantonness doubled, so hard to ignore. She stifled a groan. Damn him if her desire to be under him on a soft bed didn’t rear its frustrated head…again. Memory of the orgasm he’d given her in her kitchen made a return performance.

She was so caught up, her breath turned harsh and her blood galloped, she hadn’t realized Saint had set her down and tried to hand her a helmet, and kissed her exposed neck. She melted a little more inside, the zing of temptation he sparked shot straight to all the hot desperate places she wanted him to touch. She was more disgusted with her bodies uncontrollable overtures for the man, she wanted to scream, for wholly different reasons.

“Saint, I’m not doing this.”

“Not taking no for an answer. You’ll love it.”

“No, I won’t!”

Saint smiled, the jerk, and got on a sleek black roadster of some sort and started it up. The rumble of sound made her jump. Sienna glared at him. Arms crossed, she looked out toward her car, tempted to leave. Before she could move he pulled her toward the bike and patted her left leg and handed her a pretty black helmet that was embellished with swirls, feathers and flowers. She stared at it. He tapped the helmet this time.

Reluctant but determined to end things when they got back, she put the helmet on and got on the bike. Sienna wobbled and gripped Saint’s shoulders when he righted the bike and kicked the stand back.

Her scream projected past the visor when he revved the throttle at the same time he yelled, “Hang on tight!” and took off straight out of the garage. Her arms locked around Saint’s waist. Varieties of creative curse words flew from her mouth as he shifted and the bike leapt forward again. Saint just laughed. With it she felt every release and contraction of his muscular stomach. It wasn’t fair.

Each curve he maneuvered became a dance with physics. The vibration of the rawhide seat was a constant pulse against her girly parts. The farther they rode, the more aroused she became.

It took too long for her to relax into his back and enjoy the ride. She wanted to forget she shouldn’t be here, forget Layton’s indiscretions which reminded her that she shouldn’t risk her heart again. But she eventually did. She couldn’t help but think a man like Saint could come to love her? Right? Maybe? No, her mind screamed. She quickly built a wall around the thought. Nobody could love her, not where it counted. Not enough to stick around. It was a proven fact that everyone left her. Well, except for Megs. Her friend would never abandon her.

When her mind went back to that notion, the image of Danny sprang to mind. He was a mirror of herself after her mother left. The loss of that small amount of protection was devastating. Something needed to be done to help the boy. Could she intervene?

She felt a tap on her leg and realized they were coming to a stop.

She got off the bike not paying attention and gasped when she looked up. It was spectacular. “What is this place?”

Saint didn’t say a word, grabbed her hand, and once again, pulled her where he wanted her to go. She really needed him to stop doing that.

“Saint!” She yanked her hand from his. “Would you please stop dragging me every which way.” She huffed and crossed her arms before she realized she’d even done it. She began to stomp her foot but stilled just in time. Sienna dropped her hands and smoothed out non-existent wrinkles on her jacket to cover up the petulance. All Saint did in response was kiss the tip of her nose again. She almost snarled at him but also nearly smiled as he wrapped his arm around her. “Frustrating man,” she mumbled.

“Sit with me.” He pointed to a bench that shown the view. It was too beautiful not to enjoy so she didn’t yell or put up a fight. The only problem, she didn’t wind up on the bench. Oh, no! Saint pulled her down onto his lap. She struggled, but her intentions to get up were weak. His heat felt too damn good in the chill that settled over their evening. Of course he had to engage her girly parts again. He pulled her close, his fingers, drawing lazy circles on her shoulder, which happened to be attached to the hand that smoothly moved under the collar of her jacket and shirt to find bare skin. She decided to focus on the view. Well, as much as she could.

They sat for a while the quiet lulling her to relax, but then Saint spoke. “My sister and I used to come here after my parents died. When things weren’t going right or we needed to clear our heads we’d come up here, stare out over the pine trees and just breathe to clear out all the other stuff in our heads.” She could feel him shrug his shoulders. “She’d gather pinecones and stack them up in a pyramid. I don’t know why she did it, but she would always be so focused I’d scare the crap out of her every time I told her it was time to leave.” He chuckled.

“Do you see your sister often?”

“No,” he said and rubbed his face with the hand that wasn’t occupied. “Becky was 18 when she overdosed.”

“I’m so sorry, Saint.” He squeezed her tight and then released her only a little, his hold still comfortably tight, his breath shaky as he let it out.

They sat with only the silence and stars for a long time. She thought of her mother. Sienna knew quite a bit about addiction. She shivered and put thoughts of her past out of her mind and concentrated on the sky.

The stars were a spectacle, millions of them trying to outshine the other. Sienna had always thought stars held a profound truth in their light. Some things outlasted even time. A human saw the light of a star that had perhaps died out eons ago, but its brilliance still lingered, remembered by the geeky astrologer. Remembered. Would someone remember her when her light stopped shining?

“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

Sienna sighed when he called her sweetheart. Layton never called her anything other than Sienna. “The stars,” she said and looked into his eyes. “They’re beautiful aren’t they?”

Without a word he leaned into her. “Saint?” she whispered. Slow as molasses he took her lips and she never once thought to back away. It was like she was a positive and he was a negative force that couldn’t help but come together, and God it was good. He sipped, teased, and licked at her mouth. Her need for him only escalated. She wanted to push him away but every time his mouth touched hers another link formed between them, sunk deeper into her skin, grabbed hold, burrowed into that first layer of her shields that he’d started to crack after their first encounter just a few weeks ago.

Sienna closed her eyes when the reach of his stare, while he kissed her, tried to cast more of his web. She didn’t want to deny her body anymore but she would deny her heart if she could help it. With each swipe of his tongue she opened a little more for him until her lips took his. Her tongue forged its way into the depths of his mouth matching desire for desire. When his hand that caressed her collarbone drew her around to face him fully, she turned willingly.

Hands came out of her shirt and wrapped around her back, drawing her closer. His kiss deepened. The wild scent of him intoxicated her. She moved one leg over his lap, kneeled and sat on his lap crowding him, chest to chest. The zipper of her jeans aligned with his arousal.

“Oh!” she moaned, startled by the instant zing that made her body weep for him. Could this get any better, she asked herself. Oh yes it could. His lips answered her internal plea. They brushed across her chin, skimmed the sensitive spot just behind her ear. He suckled and licked until she moaned aloud. She shivered as he continued down a path straight to the line between her breasts as her bra hugged the swollen mounds. She tried to direct him back to her mouth, but he would have none of that. He grabbed her hips to still her but it caused her sex to jolt.

“Ohh!” They both moaned.

Heat flared at the touch and she rocked with longer strokes. The fevered motion hit her clit, back and forth, back and forth. It would only be more perfect if he had been inside her. He moaned her name and his tongue delved between her aching breasts.

“Please!” She cried, not knowing why she was saying it. “Need more,” she begged. Anything to make the ache between her legs ease. Her will to stay away from him was forgotten. All she wanted was him.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“I…I don’t know.” She continued to rub her clit against him and he dove back in with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, everything. Her movements quickened, the beat of her heart seemed to find his as their chest came together and he rocked with her, and suddenly, she couldn’t hold back the scream that joined the climax. She exploded with sinful pleasure. “Oh, God!”

“That’s it Sienna, let go. I’ve got you.”

It was too much. A sob broke from deep inside Sienna with his words. His arms wrapped tighter around her. “Why are you doing this to me. This can’t happen. We can’t happen.” With more strength than she thought she had she pushed away from him and stood up and almost lost her balance. She wobbled but then gained her feet. “Take me back.”

He stared at her for a long moment, like he was seeing the inside of her soul. She wanted to run and hide. Then, with very precise and pointed movements, he ran a finger over his lips, catching the shiny wetness that she had left behind and sucked the finger inside his mouth, tasting her. She almost whimpered but held herself in check. Just barely. He stood and she took a sudden step back, would have fallen, but again, Saint caught her easily.

He didn’t do anything more, just held her with his eyes, and she froze like a frightened child. Her breathing wasn’t easy after the tumultuous ride she’d just taken.

“Take me back.” She bit her lip and pushed him away. He let her go, but it was a slow thing. She wrapped her arms around her middle like it would help hold herself together while her insides sizzled for his heat again. She wouldn’t tell him to take her home instead, make love to her until she only felt him, thought of him, and nothing else. “Please?” She wasn’t past begging either, even if her body agreed that she should go home with him. She knew it would be good, but she had more control than this. Right? Whatever happened between them, she would be left alone in the end. She had to let him go.

He nodded once and she sighed in relief. But that was short lived when he grabbed her and brought them together. He squeezed her close, aligned them from head to toe, their fit perfect. Then his head dipped down fast and his lips took hers hard, like he was staking a claim, marking her in some way. The surprise unbalanced her, especially when he let her go just as suddenly and handed her a helmet. She stared down at it. Once again he protected her, but she didn’t hit him this time. Sienna let him do what he wanted. He got her on the bike and they headed back to the city. She planned to go home, put on her most comfortable pajamas and wallow in a pint of Cherry Garcia, wanting Saint, something she knew would never be hers.

When they arrived, Saint pulled into the garage and she got off the bike, handed him the helmet and tried to smooth out her hair. He took the helmet and put it in a cabinet off to one side. Saint turned around and zeroed in on her with his gaze, but said nothing.

“Well, thanks for the ride.”

Still nothing. She lifted her hand and turned at the same time she waved, when he finally spoke.

“This is good between us Sienna. You know it,” His voice was calm and direct but it did the opposite to her. Her heart started to tremble inside. This time she stayed silent with her back to him frozen to the spot, afraid of what she’d see in his eyes if she turned around. He continued, “That helmet’s yours Sienna.” She shook her head, and swallowed hard. “I’m not giving up on what we’ve started.”

“She Wants to Dance Like Uma Thurman” Fallout Boy

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Thank you Fallout Boy for reminding me of another plot structure. Consecutive stories in parallel narratives are one of the special ingredients in Pulp Fiction directed by Quentin Tarantino. Granted, there is plenty to love or hate about the film. Before I first watched Pulp Fiction, I knew people who had left mid-show because of the graphic scenes. I also knew cinematography buffs, who quoted the film verbatim. For this post, I ask you to consider only the story structure and to forget about Uma Thurman dancing, the drugs, the language and the violence.

Deceiving and confusing for a majority of the movie, Pulp Fiction keeps the audience off-balance with a scrambled time sequence. The first two scenes escalate to a moment of high tension and then abruptly end. In the opening diner scene, Tarantino pauses the action at a point where guns are drawn and a robbery is in progress. The film leaps to an unrelated scene with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield driving to Brett’s apartment. In the middle of the apartment scene, the film shifts ahead to follow Vincent Vega, the main character of the first of three consecutive stories.

After the third story concludes, the diner scene comes into perspective as a book-end, both a prologue and an epilogue to the three plots in Pulp Fiction. On her website, Linda Aronson describes this structure as a portmanteau or bag structure, one story that contains the other stories.

Titles in the movie provide a swift transition from one story to the next. The first story is Vincent Vega and Marsellus Wallace’s Wife. The Gold Watch is Butch Collidge’s object story; a flashback shows the receipt of his father’s important watch. The Bonnie Situation is Jules Winnfield’s revelation story. The order is not chronological because Pulp Fiction employs a fractured frame portmanteau, one story split to bookend the other stories within a shifted time frame. I confess to mapping the time sequence on a notepad only after erasing half a dozens times and marking shifts with arrows, numbers and letters. Consider the scenes below. The number bullets show the films order. The alphabet bullets reveal the true chronological order. Not every scene is on my list—only the scenes with time shifts.

Film Order (1-9) / Chronological Order (A-J)

1D) DINER SCENE Honey Bunny and Pumpkin

——-Vincent Vega and Marsellus Wallace’s Wife——

2B) VINCENT and Jules in Brett’s APARTMENT SCENE

3F) Marsellus tells BUTCH to lose the fight and VINCENT to escort wife

——The Gold Watch——

4A) BUTCH receives watch FLASHBACK

5G) BUTCH returns for watch / shoots Vincent

——The Bonnie Situation——

6C) JULES miracle in Brett’s APARTMENT SCENE with Vincent

7E) DINER SCENE JULES, Vincent and Pumpkin

The intersection of the plots gives the viewer only a few hints to order the scenes. The initial scene with Honey Bunny and Pumpkin’s robbery-in-action hooks the viewer at the beginning of the film, but chronologically, this scene is in the middle of the movie. “The Bonnie Situation” occurs before the diner scene but is shown at the end of the film. In the Gold Watch, Butch Coolidge shoots Vincent. The movie, however, leapfrogs backward in time to show Vincent alive with Jules in “The Bonnie Situation.” Jules’ words foreshadow Vincent’s fate. The viewer knows of Vincent’s coming death because it has already played in the out-of-order time continuum. Sound confusing? It is.

This film’s fractured frame provides a building of the plot’s violent intensity. After Bret’s apartment, the film departs to lighter topics before coming back to the most graphic scene in “The Bonnie Situation.” Perhaps my word choice of lighter topics sounds absurd for scenes containing a drug overdose, a brawl to near death and sexual bondage. In this film, however, greater incidents of violence lead to greater examples of hope—resurrection from death, rescue of an enemy, and repentance—in Tarantino’s portrayal of darkness or nihilism. Both the cause and consequences are plot.

Reflections on Resolutions and Writing

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‘Tis the season.

What does your season look like?

It’s December, and I’m running around with holiday madness. I don’t have the time to remember my gift list let alone what I did or didn’t accomplish this year. In fact, if hadn’t written them down, I’d have forgotten I even had thoughts to change my world.

I don’t believe in resolutions. Too often they’re wishes without a specific plan for success. That’s why I embraced my writers’ group commitment to three Non-Resolutions for 2015. The challenge was to identify the “specific and concrete” steps to “improve yourself as a writer.” I did this thinking it a simple challenge something specific and easy it’s the end of the year, tis the season to look ahead while looking back. so I share my successes and failures in life, the universe and everything else.

How did I do? Let’s just say I take ownership of my actions and my non-actions. These were my commitments:

1.(A) Find an editor and (B) publish my memoir before June 2015.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not even close. Every time I sat down to edit, thinking the book just needed some tweaking, I found a jumble of sentence fragments and missplelled words instead. I suspected that organizing the non-chronological series of vignettes was the problem. I came up with creative ways to procrastination. I read blog posts by fiction and nonfiction writers to learn how they handled organization. I read a memoir to see how it was organized. I found checklists to follow, but still my story didn’t flow.

That got me thinking about format and tools to ease my struggles. I purchased Scrivener, a software program has a “corkboard” to organize my thoughts and scenes so I can rearrange as often as needed with a swift swipe of my mouse. This is a useful procrastination, I told myself. I spent two weeks slugging through the detailed tutorial and then hit a snag with the program. I set it aside in frustration to continue after November’s NaNoWriMo. It’s December and is still untouched.

2.Explore at least one new book/genre and revisit an old favorite.

This was a flop. Aside from reading that one memoir early in the year, I didn’t finish another book.

I started what I presumed was “an old favorite” but it wasn’t as interesting as I remembered. I found a sci-fi book that both Mom and I read. I committed to read it at night, maybe not every night, but I put it and a spare pair of reading glasses on my nightstand for convenience. The only space available was at the edge, so the book is too far to reach, and my clumsy, ill-fitting dollar store glasses are awkward to wear. I have made reading more complicated than it should be.

3.Set aside time to journal at least once a month.

I accomplished this! I may have skipped weeks at a time, but I wrote more, that I know. That I feel. I mingled my thoughts with blog posts and ideas, sprinkled between to-do lists and notes from writers’ conferences and meetings. I rediscovered that I write more fluidly by hand, so I spent more time journaling just for the fun and love of writing on paper. Writing by hand is organic to me, so I will keep journaling.

Nothing is truly a failure. These commitments did not need to be complete, nor did they need to be completed for me to succeed. I learned about myself and gained some valuable perspectives and insights into my actions.

What did I learn?

I need to break my writing and editing tasks into smaller snippets and set a timer. Tell myself “Tuesday morning, research editors” and allot 27 minutes only. I’ll know at the end of the timer I’ll either need a break or feel inspired to keep working. It’s how I survived and won NaNoWriMo.

In 23, 27 or 33 minute segments, I wrote 50,721 words in the last 20 days of the months. I started on November 11, so this equaled 2500 words/day which for me was about 1 1/2 hours per day. That means I can find the time to write because I have the time when I’m not distracted by Major Crimes on TV or Angry Birds on my phone. I remind myself of this daily because not only is it motivating but because in the madness of the month, I discovered a 25,000-word story, a complete one that I can actually work with and interests me. I consider the purchase a distraction and a success. I can use Scrivener to organize this book as I edit to publish by the end of 2015, a swift spellbinding sequel to my initial Jimmy the Burglar book.

Getting back to my roots of handwriting gave me the opportunity to see what I was thinking. Words on paper, written by my hand, helped me focus on what I want to do with my writing. I will change the focus of my blog to include more writing, insights, interviews and inspiration. Posts on Deadwood Writers Voices may change. I want to entertain my readers, offer them something worthwhile, while writing topics that excite my passion and enthusiasm. I’m exploring what those topics may be.

As for reading books, I will purchase a better pair of reading glasses.

Paula Picked a Plighted Path of Parallel Plots

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Several chapters into Paula Hawkins’ best seller The Girl on the Train, I note the thriller’s structure of three character point of view with parallel plots. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, by David Shafer, which I also read in the fall, follows the same three character parallel plot. Although the point of view and plot structure are similar, these two books are vastly different.

Shafer begins his novel in Mandalay, Myanmar which I recently toured via tablet, the safest way to sightsee an exotic setting with movie backdrop potential. Location organizes the three equally-weighted plots and is shown at the beginning of each chapter. After round one of each of the points of view, the reader knows which location indicates which character. Portland is Leo. Mandalay begins Leila’s story. New York is Mark’s departure point.

Ansen Dibell, author of Plot, identifies this structure as a braided plot where the “pace, tone and color” of each plot blends and adds to a deeper and richer whole. Shafer’s novel is also a tandem narrative according to Linda Aronson because each of the stories presents a linear progression in time. Although the plots begin separately, a convergence occurs three times: Mark and Leila meeting at Heathrow Airport, Leila escorting Leo from Whispering Pines Rehab, and Leila and Leo rescuing Mark from a motivational speaking gig gone bad. Elizabeth Sims appropriately calls this a swallowtail plot because the convergence and interaction of the characters continues for a significant portion of the story.

The characters in Shafer’s novel are unique and humorous. A Goodreads review describes my favorite character Leo as the “unhinged trustafarian.” He’s a trust fund baby and Harvard graduate who works at a daycare. The problem with having a favorite is I don’t want to read the other plots in this dark comedy, such as Mark, the “phony self betterment guru.” And yawn, I skim the chapters on the too serious, Leila, “disillusioned non-profit worker.” The balance of each characters lows and highs keeps the overall novel’s pace clicking along with plot and subplot.

For something completely different, Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train shows Dibell’s mirrored pattern of plots. The three women are connected as opposites, and at other times, as complements in emotion, life stages, themes and imagery. Each chapter in the story begins with a character’s name, day of the week, date and time of day. In the first chapter, the main protagonist, Rachel, travels morning and evening for five days on the train. The story’s motion feels like commuting, stopping, starting and sharing an awkward space with the same faces going the same way at the same time each day. The reader learns of Rachel’s alcoholic behaviors, cheers her sobriety and dreads what will come of her next drinking binge and her calls to ex-husband, Tom.

As for Rachel, her plot and Megan’s are true parallels in a geometric sense and never intersect. These two plots and points of view alternate for the first third of the book before Anna’s point of view presents. Anna intersects with Rachel and with Megan but at different time periods–one in the present and one in the past. Hawkin’s story illustrates what Aronson calls a fractured tandem, current time for Rachel and Anna but a past time frame for Megan. Aronson identifies this parallel plot structure as good for “unexpected, often tragic connections between disparate people.” That sentence pretty much sums up the book for me.

The technique of parallel plots is a time tested convention. Contemporary writers borrow from 16th century Shakespeare who copied from first century Greek philosopher, Plutarch. In “King Lear,” Shakespeare mirrors plot and subplot to intensify the drama. Both The Girl on the Train and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot benefit from the intricate weaving of plots and mirroring of characters.

Tags: parallel plots, writers craft, The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, David Shafer, Linda Aronson, Ansen Dibell, Elizabeth Sims, Shakespeare, “King Lear”