Some writing days, I feel like Indiana Jones trying to get to the point in the most direct way possible. Indy runs. He hides. He darts through the marketplace. I tiptoe, I hide, I dart through the kitchen on my way to my laptop. (Shhhhh, kids, not time to get up yet….)
Indiana Jones is confronted by a wily, gifted swordsman. Shall he engage blade-for-blade? I am confronted by indecision: I know where my scene is headed, but have several openings duking it out in my head.
[SPOILER ALERT: If you have not seen Raiders of the Lost Ark (really? How come?), you intend to see it, and you prefer the thrill of the new rather than the joy of recognition for one, tiny, 26-second scene, bookmark this page, stop reading, and move along to my next blog post. Remember to come back after you’ve seen the movie though, ok?]
Indy doesn’t allow himself to become mesmerized by the fancy bladesmanship of the would-be assailant. Noooo!
Blam! Indy pulls out his gun and shoots his attacker. (No matter what your position on guns, gun ownership, and gun use is, put it aside for a moment – we’re talking fiction here.) I take a deep breath and Blam! I’ve commited to my scene-opener – same rush of adrenaline, same sensation of satisfaction, same matter-of-fact push to get to the point of the scene.
This is to say that I plunged in to write a hot scene first, and the story is falling around it.
Now, I shall fire-up my screensaver and tiptoe back to the kitchen to make five breakfasts (no cereal here) and two lunches.