Nov 16

Wordplay: My Geek Is Showing

I failed my children by not pushing them further in studying spelling and vocabulary. One of my sons, a senior in high school, said to me that he just doesn’t know very many words. His limited repertoire made writing essays for his college applications a difficult and grueling process. Writing never came easily to him.

In contrast, I’ve always loved penning my thoughts and studying the mechanics of grammar, selecting the right words to convey my meaning. I love playing Boggle and Scrabble, and I look forward to quizzing myself with Reader’s Digest’s “Word Power.” I stop myself from giving my son too much writing advice because it’s important that he express his own thoughts in his own way. In looking back at the differences in our educations, I have an idea of why he struggles more than I do.

My elementary and junior high schools encouraged participation in spelling bees. I spent hours on rote memorization with the help of my patient mom. She read pages full of words out loud to me, one word at a time. I never once thought to ask her what the origin of an unfamiliar word was, but today’s top spelling bee contestants frequently make use of that rather sophisticated technique. If I had known there was more to studying spelling than memorization, I might not have lost first place to Kathy Trotter in the sixth grade. I didn’t know how to spell curry. Rote memorization only got me so far. Fortunately, I wasn’t competing for a college scholarship. The short-term goal was simply praise, a dictionary, and a trophy. The lifetime benefit was that I became a good speller.

KellyDeadwood-2015-11Nov-ToiletTreesList

Spelling and vocabulary matter: I had to let my son know that toiletries would be easier to pack.

Sixth grade for my children was a different experience. Their spelling words were taken from their own journal entries. The children were tested on words which they individually used in their own writing exercises. I understood the practicality of holding students responsible for using self-selected words correctly. But I wanted a bigger challenge for my kids. How would they learn new and unfamiliar words and to expand their knowledge of language?

I reminded myself that teachers aren’t solely or primarily responsible for our children’s educations. As parents, we need to instruct and guide. To complement my children’s elementary school lessons, I developed a game that I thought would challenge them and be fun for our entire family.

During one week, I randomly selected a word each day from our two-volume dictionary. By the end of the week, we all had to know how to spell the seven chosen words and combine them into one sentence. The sentence could be longer than seven words, but it had to reflect correct usage and meaning. Essentially, the family and I studied a word a day—similar in scope to what Merriam-Webster currently offers online—but my game involved the added challenge I was seeking.

So that you can see how this game worked, I’m going to borrow the seven “Word of The Day” selections which Merriam-Webster promoted from October 29 – November 4, 2015. First, we have to consider the definitions of the words. The list below is taken verbatim from www.merriam-webster.com.

Pellucid: admitting maximum passage of light without diffusion or distortion; reflecting light evenly from all surfaces; easy to understand

Underwhelm: to fail to impress or stimulate

Ebullient: boiling, agitated; having or showing liveliness and enthusiasm; exuberant

Microburst: a violent short-lived localized downdraft that creates extreme wind shears at low altitudes and is usually associated with thunderstorms

Ruddy: having a healthy reddish color; red, reddish

Confidant: one to whom secrets are entrusted; especially: an intimate friend

Trepid:  timorous, fearful

Now comes the hard part: we have to consider those definitions in anticipation of using the seven words to construct one sentence. Here’s my solution to the puzzle:

My ruddy confidant was caught in a microburst which left her so trepid that, when she couldn’t describe the situation in a pellucid manner, I was underwhelmed, despite her apparently ebullient experience.

KellyDeadwood-2015-11Nov-KellyMemeThanksgiving

If I wanted to break the rules of grammar when creating this meme, I would have written Happy Givingthanks.

.
Sadly, my kids never really enjoyed the game as much as I did, and it was quickly forgotten. But thank goodness, they now have smart phones and can share highly entertaining, often grammatically incorrect, internet memes with one another. If only people like my kids understood the rules before they broke them.

Nov 15

Climbing Mount Mitchell

Our group of hikers decided to climb North Carolina’s Mount Mitchell, the tallest mountain east of the Rockies in a three-day adventure. Following was recorded as it happened.

Monday Oct 12 – Staters stayed overnight halfway to N.C. while Jerry picked up Reed at his house at 6:00 am (in the morning), and Nick and Rick arrived to drive together. Stopped in Kentucky for Liquor Barn’s two bottles of Gordon’s and expensive St. George’s, a “uniquely Californian gin with real terroir made from 12 botanicals redolent of California’s might Mount Tam, juniper, Douglas fir, Cal Bay Laurel, fennel, coastal sage, Orris root, angelica root, and other profoundly aromatic botanical ingredients all come together to create a forest in your glass.” Tasted like pine cones, echh! Arrived Black Mountain campground, Briar Bottom section, Dogwood campsite 6:30 pm in time to set tents and have a happy hour with martinis with real martini glasses. Jerry proudly hung GMI flag beside Stater MSU flag. Rick, Nick, and Doc grilled Costco steaks, baked spuds, baked beans, and special onion-garlic-mushroom compost. Rick produced Trader Joe Grand Reserve Yountville Cabernet Sauvignon. Campfire discussion regarding upcoming UM-MSU game. Harbaugh and Dantonio are intense, and we would be in tents, too. Overnight rain made midnight bathroom runs most difficult. Did everyone put the food away?

Tuesday Oct 13 – Awoke to clear dawn, and French toast with Cajun bacon (yum). Rick’s blue tub mysteriously missing but soon discovered. What could have happened? It was 25 yards away in the brush without Tupperware and two dozen ginger snaps (oh, the loss), one bag of caramel corn, a box of raisins, and a bottle of Maalox. Could only be an overnight black bear now satiated but constipated. Hmm. Decision? Place food in vehicles and keep very large knives next to sleeping bags from now on. Nick and Rick have cots (can you believe it) so they will never be bothered by bears. Jerry, Jon, and Pat decided to climb 6684 ft. Mount Mitchell and be picked up at the top. Pat hit forehead on low branch, receiving “stinger” neck and dead arms, before dropping water bottle over cliff. Pasties for lunch on the mountain. Finally summited Mount Mitchell, exhausted, to discover parking lot full of cars and curious visitors. Back at base, Nick flew Quadra-copter-don’t-call-it-a-drone from campsite launching pad with overhead videos of surrounding mountains. Totally unflappable Stanley the Southern campground-keeper, that no one could understand, stopped to say hello and was amazed at the sight. We think. Hot free showers, woo hoo. Grilled Salmon with strawberry, pineapple, orange, lime juice/zest salsa, and Cline Old Vintage Zin and Raymond Hill Chard. Midnight hoot owl screeching (maybe bobcat) but no bears TG. Held knives closer. Sometime overnight, insane ghost chipmunk invaded Jerry’s truck bed and began eating a favorite wool sweater. Pat discovered something had invaded his van’s arm-rest cubbyhole and made a nest of seat fabric and twigs. What IS it with these crazy animals?

Wednesday Oct 14 – French toast and bacon breakfast before Jerry and Reed tackled Green Knob, while Nick, Rick, John, and Pat tackled Biltmore estate and early wine tasting. Another cocktail hour by a real campfire (friggin’ firewood more expensive than ever) before dinner of Rogers City smoked pork chops, stewed tomatoes, quartered potatoes, and Plum Mkt Russian Valley MacMurray 2013 Pinot Noir with lots of appreciated John belching. Overnight temps in mid-40’s made midnight runs a challenge.

Thursday Oct 15 – Pancake and Cajun bacon breakfast, before Lower Toe River group hike. Pat relates, the “critter” that shredded Jerry’s sweater and ate various foods in van came back to Michigan. The little bugger ate an apple Tuesday night. After multiple times to let him out (window open and doors open all day and night twice), finally got him on stick’em mouse trap w/ seed mix; a field mouse, not a chippy-munk.” Thursday’s 5-year-old freeze-dried chicken and rice lunch wasn’t bad. Relaxing afternoon with showers and doctored-Cincinnati chili (mit bacon) dinner and Sangiovese wine. Packing up for early departure, had a flawless black night and Milky Way casting shadows. Fell asleep laughing insanely about the seven cuss words. No bears, TG.

Friday Oct 16 – Awoke to dark cold and wind. Broke camp and departed 6:15 am. (in da morning). Stopped in Kentucky for lunch and discovered Pat’s and John’s van sides covered with multiple bear paw prints from trying to get in overnight. Inspected inside of van and other vehicles for lurking bears before proceeding. Good weather all week and great time had by all.

Nov 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 5 – Burned

Mature content

“You need to leave,” Sienna said, and pushed Saint away before his lips touched hers.

Saint straightened to his full height. Sienna froze as his narrowed gaze locked to hers like a taught cable. She tried to hide her reaction, but her body burned for him. Then she blinked and he turned away, to leave, she hoped. She walked toward the kitchen when the snick of the front doors lock sounded like a detonation. Tingles of heat swarmed through her body. A tsunami of need washed over her, an uncontrolled response. Sienna thought she’d convinced herself she wasn’t at all interested in the sexy man, but her body disagreed. Her nipples tightened. The moisture between her legs grew until she pressed against the cool tile at the edge of the kitchen counter and her legs pressed together. If only she didn’t feel as if the door he just closed and locked was one she could open. But no, she wouldn’t open that door again.

She didn’t want to like him so much though. The fact they met the night before didn’t mean much at the moment. Her mind and body were a contradiction. Sienna shook her head, her fingers gripping the counter until they turned white. She’d tried hard to lock her heart away after Layton betrayed her, but somehow, the small snick on the lock on her front door, sounded more like a bomb that signaled an emotional implosion. Saint’s action minutes ago and his actions last night seemed to break down all the walls she’d built. She didn’t want to build them again. Sienna knew she would have to if she let him in. Dammit!

Her mortar crumbled bit by bit. It’d broken down so many times she’d gotten used to what came after, the loneliness, the heartbreak, the rebuilding. She’d let Layton in after she’d promised herself, after her mother left, she would never let herself love someone again. She always hoped though, one day, someone would stay. But people always walked away in the end. Everyone had.

The one who hadn’t was Megs. Being best friends like they were…Megs had saved her. Without Megs, she would have spiraled into a bout of depression in her teen years when her mother disappeared from her life. Her mother hadn’t cared enough about her to stick around. Instead, she’d lied about going to the grocery store, took what money they had in savings, and had left her with nothing. She feared if Megan hadn’t been there, Megan’s family taking her in, it would have been Sienna’s undoing.

Lost in the past, not wanting to be there and ignoring Saint, Sienna looked around on the counter. She needed coffee. Right now. The automatic task in mind, she went to work. The cabinets banged as she grabbed her favorite mug with the gold star on it, she scooped coffee in robotic movements. Dark grounds fell into the gold filter. The water, cold to her touch, she measured, poured it into the water tank. She pushed the start button and moved to go to the pantry for cereal when she heard Saint’s boots slide across the carpet in a soft cadence. As he drew closer, she swore in her head again. Sienna didn’t want to deal with another man right now. Not for a long time. Maybe ever. Layton’s theatrics had been enough to last her a lifetime. But Saint had been so sweet the night before. She should at least give him a thank you? No! Her doors were closed. She would get her mental mortar out, fill the holes as soon as she had her morning coffee.

Sienna heaved a sigh, resigned. Getting rid of him was going to take longer than she wanted. Before she could move to the pantry, Saint crowded in behind her. Oh boy, she thought. He nudged her with his hips. Then she said without thinking, “Crap on toast!” shivered and tried to hide a groan.

“What’d you say?”

She didn’t respond for a second. Nerves coalesced. She blurted, “Do you want some coffee.” Why she asked him to stay for coffee she didn’t know. She wanted to get rid of him not keep him around. Say no, say no, say no.

“Sure,” he responded, then thankfully, stepped back. “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” she said not turning to look at him.

Sienna got her second favorite mug down–this one with a green circle and a splash of an abstract wash of blue’s–and waited with her back to Saint. Maybe if she didn’t ask him any questions he would drink his coffee and leave. But too soon, Saint asked, “So, what do you do, Sienna?”

She licked her lips, took a deep breath, gathered up her courage to face one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen and turned around.

“Twisted Metal,” she responded.

“You twist metal?”

“No, I co-own Twisted Metal. It’s the name of my jewelry boutique I co-own with Megan. My job is to design the jewelry; Megan takes care of the business side.”

“Cool name.”

“Yeah, we think so.” The coffee beeped, Sienna quickly turned around, and grabbed the coffee pot to give her hands something to do.

“What do you do?”

“I test motorcycles, racing bikes.”

She stayed quiet and poured, stared at her hands as they shook. Wasn’t that dangereous? She cleared her throat. “Oh?” The coffee splattered over the edge of one cup. She was barely able to do a better job with the second one.

“You okay, Sienna?”

“Yeah. Fine.” She heard him move toward her. She turned around and held up both mugs so he couldn’t come any closer. “I guess Layton’s little temper tantrum upset me more than I thought.” That was a lie, of course, but Saint didn’t need to know he made her nervous. Saint’s lips pinched down and his jaw tensed again. “I’m fine, really.” He opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it, held out his mug, and asked, “Do you want any cream?”

He reached out and took the mug from her hand. His skin brushed hers, slow warmth spread out from the tips of her fingers down to all the right places. Leather and man permeated her senses. She inhaled deep, turned around to reach into the frig for some whip cream and chocolate syrup to doctor her coffee. It was a mocha morning. When she turned around, Saint glanced down to her mouth and watched as she took a sip. Her gaze met his. What she saw made her nearly choke on the whipped cream she’d licked off the top of her coffee. She coughed a few times and Saint took a step forward. Slow as molasses, he took the mug from her hand, set it down next to his own.

“You know I have to taste you now, right,” he whispered.

Sienna shook her head back and forth. She tried to back up but the counter and his arms surrounded her. She shook her head.

“Oh yes. And I think you want me to, don’t you Sienna?”

“Na…no I’m good.” But it was too late.

His hands inched closer becoming a fiery vice. Her breaths grew heavy and her tongue swept across her parched lips. She needed another drink of coffee, preferably with a bit more kick. When one of his hands moved, he captured her head in his palm and stilled her. Her breath caught in her throat. Saint leaned into her, his cock hard, an insistent presence against her belly. It made her want to groan with need but she could control herself, right? She wouldn’t kiss him back. He needed to leave. Her hands moved up to his firm chest ready to push him away, but instead, her nails curled into his shirt and she yanked him closer at the same time his mouth took hers.

Saint controlled the kiss the instant their lips touched. His fingers combed through her hair, the methodical movement added fire to the kindle that already burned. When he wrapped the long locks around his wrist, Saint’s grip constricted any movement. Sienna gasped then moaned into his mouth, trying to hold back, but it was no use. He bent her head back further and she was lost to his demands. Saint nipped her lip, his tongue pressed for entry she obeyed and opened for him, her mind a blank space, her body a willing participant. Sienna would give him anything in this moment. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped the harder he pulled her hair. She begged him for more with small mews that crowded her throat. Saint released her hair. She would have fallen but rough fingers danced up to bare back the dress exposed, he kneaded, molded her curves. His other hand took full advantage of the dress she woke up in, it meandered lower, inched over sensitive, aroused flesh. It maddened her until he grabbed her ass and ground his cock in just the right place. “Ohh!” She hummed into his mouth. He pressed even harder, circling, circling, his hips, with each sound she made. Sienna’s clit throbbed. The molecules of pleasure gathered, tightened, and drew her closer and closer to the apex, that tipping point just out of reach. She edged closer to the precipice, desperate to come. Her body became more frantic as each second passed. The orgasm was almost…almost. Saint pulled away.

“No! What are you doing?” she breathed and tried to pull him back to her.

“I want to watch you come.”

“What?” She said, breathless.

Her breaths came harder, faster, when she realized he hadn’t stopped. His body still tight to hers, her breasts ached against his hard chest. Saint yanked her away from the counter and gripped her ass almost painfully. She cried out. There wasn’t even the tiniest space between them. Her head fell back. His movements got smaller, shaper. He thrust forward and back over and over. Her breaths came in pants now, short, painful. She looked to him, her eyes hooded, his lust for her made her blood boil. That’s all it took. She detonated like a grenade and her body filled with an erotic haze. Inner walls spasmed. Fingers clamped down on his biceps and he held her weight taking her mouth again. That was the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had, she thought.

He never let up the pressure on the small bud. Oh God, he has to stop. The sensations made her spasm over and over and then, not taking his eyes off her, he bit her lip at the same time he reached down under her dress, took her clit between his thumb and index finger, and rolled it with enough force, ripples of pleasure continued its assault. Her whimper echoed in his mouth as he kissed her again. Mini orgasm’s rolled over her one after the other. She lifted her head. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, no more, no more.” She begged.

Saint chuckled, as his lips brushed down across her jaw. His teeth scraped her neck. He tapped her lips with his own, a playful gesture, and then he rested his forehead against hers.

“So responsive.” His head titled back and forth when he leaned back to take her in, his finger followed the same path his mouth did. “I want you at the raceway.”

“Huh,” she said dazed, his words so off topic, the topic being her body still on fire for him. She licked her lips, dry from her screams. He watched the movement like a predator stalking prey. He blinked when she asked, “What raceway?”

“Paulson Raceway. I want to take you out for a ride.”

“A ride?” She squeaked and then swallowed trying to get some kind of composure back.

“My ride.”

“Your what?”

He smiled. “My bike. You got to meet her.” and touched his lips to hers again. She panicked at the affection, pulled back and Saint frowned.

“What? No!” she said flustered. “I’m glad you were here when Layton showed up and I appreciate you bringing me home last night, but I’m not going out with you.”

“I have to disagree.”

“What’s there to disagree about? I don’t know you. And as you saw with Layton I make poor choices when it comes to men. And you’re a man. So, I’m not going to go out with you.” She crossed her arms and dared him to disagree again. She knew she shouldn’t go out with him. Sienna liked him too much. That was the problem. If they went out, she’d make room for him in her life, start to care for him even more, until one day, she wasn’t good enough for him anymore. He’d walk away. No, she wasn’t going to go out with him.

“Right,” he said and shook his head. “I don’t believe you want to disagree.”

His gaze went down to her chest and she tipped her head down, her nipples poked through her dress. She lifted her arms higher to cover the taut peaks. She glared at him. “No, no, no,” saying it over and over again so he’d believe it. “Well that’s too bad, because as I said, I am not going out with you.”

“Hmm. But you want to.”

“No I don’t,” she snapped. “You need to leave,” she said before she could do something stupid, like grab his shirt and drag him up to her bed so she could take full advantage of his big, strong, hard…she glanced down. His erection strained against his slacks.

She must have hummed her pleasure again, because she was startled when Saint said, “I’ll see you in one week. That’s all the time I’ll give you to adjust to the idea of being mine.” And then he headed toward the front door.

“No you won’t,” she said like a frustrated child. Did I just stomp my foot?

“Oh, you’ll see me again, Sienna. If you don’t, who’s going to give you one of the best orgasm’s you’ve ever had.”

Had she said that aloud? “Gah!”

“One week, Sienna,” he called over his shoulder not even looking at her. Then he walked down the front porch, got into his truck and drove away.

She stood there so long she started to get goose bumps on her skin when the clouds divested her view of the sun. Sienna backed up, closed the door, and started toward the kitchen.

She was not going to go to the Paulson Raceway.

Sienna reached for her coffee, but groaned instead. She leaned into the counter. What had she done? Her internal walls warmed again, and she flushed and shivered with a greater need than she’d ever known. The irresistible problem was, she just had had the best orgasm of her life and Saint wanted to give her more.

“Arrogant rock-hard jerk!”

Nov 08

Got Plot? Or Not

SteppingStones245Like the stepping stones in the serene Japanese Garden at the Chicago Botanic Garden, storytellers recount tales moving through a series of classic plot points. The concept of plot stretches back to the earliest recorded histories: cave drawings, tribal tattoos, epic poems, plays and theatre. Plot is the weave of our history, ancestry, immigration and patriotism.

Some stepping stones, however, are not for walking. In the Japanese garden, only mental journeys travel from one side of this path to the other. The meticulously raked gravel rests undisturbed and in perfect harmony with the stones. No haphazard or careless footprints occur. There is no plot, only contemplation.

Somewhere, someone will accomplish great things. Books will capture the details, and schoolchildren will memorize the facts. Movies will be made. Who will be the hero of these next quests? You? Me? Unfortunately, the only quest in my future is surviving the commute, managing my “to do” lists and shuttling the offspring to cross country meets and back to college. Hence, for most, modern existence is one plotless mess.

Is that bad? In 1939, James Thurber captured the desire for greatness and the restlessness of our ego in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” In the original short story, Mrs. Mitty instructs Walter to run two errands while she visits the hairdresser. Several fantastic dream sequences distract Walter, but he gets his overshoes and puppy biscuits. Walter is a sympathetic character, and the story is one hundred percent relatable. It’s “plotless us” in a six page story.

For fun, let’s forget everything we know about story structure and embrace the plotless story. Our story is big on character and less so on action. The story demonstrates a goal and a global theme. Plotless fiction progresses by conveying meaning, relationship, or an interpretation of memory. Unlike a story with continued rising action, this story structure waffles along the time horizon with possibly, if we’re lucky, some aspect of emotional change or growth. While fiction debates the power of the prose verses the strength of the story, film balances less plot, narrative, with more imagery and character.

For example, the film, Beasts of the Southern Wild, is essentially plotless, but excels in imagery, unique characters and powerful acting.  The independent five year old protagonist, Hushpuppy, fails to achieve, accomplish, deliver or find anything. Instead, the film is a storytelling of her unique talents of listening to heartbeats, her strength to persevere and her disconnect between reality and her fictional southern Louisiana bayou called “The Bathtub.” The film begins with a folk tale about the Aurochs, feared and legendary for eating cave babies. In a perfect example of storytelling, the teacher points to her arm bearing a tattooed image of the beast. Conflict ensues with nature (storm), man (Wink, people behind the levee and the authorities) and self (the Aurochs). Yet, the film does not have a climax. It is more a “day in the life of Hushpuppy.” In those memorable days, a storm ruins her home, and her father, Wink, faces the ultimate life battle.

Popular culture perpetuates plotless story arcs. For example, the Moth Radio Hour on National Public Radio encourages storytellers to find a story where they have a stake. No stake means no story. These five minute true stories make the audiences laugh, cry and sigh. Many of the stories are meandering slices of life. For example, let’s examine these two moth stories: (Shakoor, 2012; Lane, 2014).

Satori Shakoor (“Point of No Return”) explores inner conflict in her desperate job search. I’ve listened to this story many times and never tire of the humor and fantastic delivery, but the story arc is plotless. She has a problem. The problem is not resolved.

As a native Texan, I would like to adopt Faye Lane and her adorable drawl into my family. When Faye tells of her mother’s beauty shop, I wonder if it could be the neighborhood beauty shop that operated across the street from my grandmother’s house in Temple, Texas. Faye Lane (“Fireworks From Above”) has strong thematic material in her mission to be kind and a goal, to bring individuals together through an emotional experience. Her flight attendant experiences, which individualize the group, are an emotional jackpot but not a plot.

Moth storytellers extract the emotional core of a story. Emotion is a highly volatile element on the storytelling periodic table. It cannot be sustained for long periods, which is why, plotlessness is successful on a small scale. A short story, a live storytelling and even an artsy film are great outlets for the plotless.

Nov 06

Story Starters

“Bad decisions make good stories.” – Author Unknown

“Let’s recreate the dinosaurs.” Bad decision, great story – “Jurassic Park.”

Walking down a dark alley in the middle of the night during a zombie apocalypse is a dumb idea. Scary story – “The Walking Dead.”

Disgruntled employee steals money from her employer and spends the night at the Bates Motel. Two wrong decisions, terrifying story – “Psycho.”

Man marries a beautiful and fascinating woman he just met. That wrong decision resulted in the deaths of several people. Great psychological drama – “Leave Her to Heaven.”

While having his portrait painted, a hedonistic aristocrat fears losing his flawless looks. He curses the painting and pledges his soul if the painting would take on the ravages of growing older. Reprehensible decision, a great moral tale – “The Portrait of Dorian Gray.”

A wealthy widowed nobleman, father of one beloved daughter, marries a self-centered widow, mother of two mean daughters. Unwise decision, classic fairy tale – “Cinderella.”

Not knowing there are two bodies buried under his front lawn, a mild mannered man kills an abusive acquaintance. He hides the body out back at the end of his property. Terrible decision, great thriller – “Three Graves Full” by Jamie Mason.

A vain spoiled Catholic widow gives birth to a horribly disfigured baby and refuses to nurture him. Evil decision, riveting story of the child’s intellect and survival skills – “Phantom” by Susan Kay. This tale is the powerful prequel to the well-known “Phantom of the Opera.”

Brilliant scientist invents and tests a teleportation device using himself as the subject. Dangerous decision, horrifying story – “The Fly.”

George Langelaan wrote a short story of the same title which was first published in Playboy magazine in June, 1957. Little did he know his story would spawn several movie versions of that terrifying tale.

Read any well-written story or watch any successful movie to find the bad decision that made a great story. Remember the movies where there is danger behind the door the protagonist is about to open. “Don’t open the door!” you were tempted to shout. If the protagonist listened to you, there wouldn’t be a story. Let the idiot open the door. Allow the beautiful woman to choose the wrong lover. Dare the naïve teenager to meet a stranger at the park. That’s where the good stories start.

What bad decisions will your characters make that would create an intriguing thriller, a heartbreaking mystery, or a happily-ever-after romance?