Read Online Advanced Brilliant Writing: Make Your Plots Wider and Your Characters Deeper (Go! Write Something Brilliant) by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan May Warren
Tags: General Fiction, Reference, Writing, Writing; Research & Publishing Guides, Writing Skills, Publishing & Books
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already lost him as he found his feet, staring in horror at his father astride a golf cart. Sitting beside him sat Ben Murphy and, behind them, Ernie Hoffman.
PJ clutched Boone’s jacket around herself, a hot embarrassment wrenching away her breath.
“Dad—”
“Don’t, Boone. Get in,” Buckam said coldly.
Without a word Boone obeyed his father, sliding onto the back shelf of the cart.
PJ huddled in the wet grass, unsure what to do.
Then Director Buckam gave her a look that made her want to curl into the fetal position. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped.
Murphy crooked a finger at her. But Ernie smiled kindly, patted the seat beside him.
PJ turned her back to them, pulled her dress closed, shivering, shaking. Feeling naked even as she zippered herself back together.
And Boone didn’t look at her.
She tried to find defense—wasn’t prom night the perfect night? And it wasn’t like it was a first for the country club, or even, probably, this green. Still as she climbed on beside Ernie and they raced back to the clubhouse, she felt like a tramp.
And then she got it.
Smoke spiraled off one end of the country club. Near the restaurant. Where she’d taken the cigarette from Boone.
Thick and black, the smoke chewed up the night sky, devouring their prom.
She glanced at Boone. He’d gone pale.
Buckam stopped the cart and got out, and PJ expected him to address Boone. Instead he grabbed PJ by the arm and hauled her over to the chief of police, who gave her a look that cleared the final passion-fog from her brain.
“Here’s our little arsonist,” Buckam said as smoke teared her eyes.
She looked over her shoulder and caught Boone’s eyes. What? But Boone was the one with the cigarette—
He turned away, his hands in his pockets.
The smoke could still make her tear, fill her lungs with acrid pitch. She coughed.
Coughed again, her chest closing upon itself. Coughed again, so violently it woke her.
She sat up in bed, still feeling the bruise of her cough.
Smoke.
A thin veneer crept into the room in the early morning light, but because of her vast experience she recognized it in a second. And, as if in confirmation, the fire alarm went off, numbing nearly all thoughts save one.
“Davy!”
I could have written it as pure Backstory narrative:
PJ’s prom night had been a fiasco. Not only had she discovered her boyfriend saying lewd things about her to his football buddies, but later, as she’d sank into his arms on the tenth tee of the country club, they’d been discovered by his father. Worse, she was later blamed for burning down the country club.
Although that is all accurate information, it doesn’t deliver the impact we need to understand the significance of the event. This one event causes PJ to leave town and not return for ten years. It also builds the tension between PJ and Boone when she does return because Boone let her take the blame for the fire (although she was innocent). Finally, it’s a key element in PJ’s emotional journey because she discovers truths about this event that alter how she sees herself.
In this case, creating a Flashback is the only way to deliver the impact of the event.
However, here is a scene that shows us a piece of PJ’s Backstory, in narrative form.
PJ had just turned eight the first time she left home. She remembered the crisp air redolent with decaying loam, pumpkins with saggy eyes peering out from doorsteps, and cornstalks hung from front porches, tied with baling twine. Auburn leaves crunched under her feet, and a slight northern wind bullied the cowboy hat she’d pulled over her jacket hood as she hustled down the road, kicking stones before her with red galoshes. She balanced a stick over her shoulder, and a handkerchief tied to the end held a soggy peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich and a few stolen peanut butter cookies. Enough to get her through the night, during which a wagon train headed west would find her and collect her for
PJ clutched Boone’s jacket around herself, a hot embarrassment wrenching away her breath.
“Dad—”
“Don’t, Boone. Get in,” Buckam said coldly.
Without a word Boone obeyed his father, sliding onto the back shelf of the cart.
PJ huddled in the wet grass, unsure what to do.
Then Director Buckam gave her a look that made her want to curl into the fetal position. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped.
Murphy crooked a finger at her. But Ernie smiled kindly, patted the seat beside him.
PJ turned her back to them, pulled her dress closed, shivering, shaking. Feeling naked even as she zippered herself back together.
And Boone didn’t look at her.
She tried to find defense—wasn’t prom night the perfect night? And it wasn’t like it was a first for the country club, or even, probably, this green. Still as she climbed on beside Ernie and they raced back to the clubhouse, she felt like a tramp.
And then she got it.
Smoke spiraled off one end of the country club. Near the restaurant. Where she’d taken the cigarette from Boone.
Thick and black, the smoke chewed up the night sky, devouring their prom.
She glanced at Boone. He’d gone pale.
Buckam stopped the cart and got out, and PJ expected him to address Boone. Instead he grabbed PJ by the arm and hauled her over to the chief of police, who gave her a look that cleared the final passion-fog from her brain.
“Here’s our little arsonist,” Buckam said as smoke teared her eyes.
She looked over her shoulder and caught Boone’s eyes. What? But Boone was the one with the cigarette—
He turned away, his hands in his pockets.
The smoke could still make her tear, fill her lungs with acrid pitch. She coughed.
Coughed again, her chest closing upon itself. Coughed again, so violently it woke her.
She sat up in bed, still feeling the bruise of her cough.
Smoke.
A thin veneer crept into the room in the early morning light, but because of her vast experience she recognized it in a second. And, as if in confirmation, the fire alarm went off, numbing nearly all thoughts save one.
“Davy!”
I could have written it as pure Backstory narrative:
PJ’s prom night had been a fiasco. Not only had she discovered her boyfriend saying lewd things about her to his football buddies, but later, as she’d sank into his arms on the tenth tee of the country club, they’d been discovered by his father. Worse, she was later blamed for burning down the country club.
Although that is all accurate information, it doesn’t deliver the impact we need to understand the significance of the event. This one event causes PJ to leave town and not return for ten years. It also builds the tension between PJ and Boone when she does return because Boone let her take the blame for the fire (although she was innocent). Finally, it’s a key element in PJ’s emotional journey because she discovers truths about this event that alter how she sees herself.
In this case, creating a Flashback is the only way to deliver the impact of the event.
However, here is a scene that shows us a piece of PJ’s Backstory, in narrative form.
PJ had just turned eight the first time she left home. She remembered the crisp air redolent with decaying loam, pumpkins with saggy eyes peering out from doorsteps, and cornstalks hung from front porches, tied with baling twine. Auburn leaves crunched under her feet, and a slight northern wind bullied the cowboy hat she’d pulled over her jacket hood as she hustled down the road, kicking stones before her with red galoshes. She balanced a stick over her shoulder, and a handkerchief tied to the end held a soggy peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich and a few stolen peanut butter cookies. Enough to get her through the night, during which a wagon train headed west would find her and collect her for
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