Jeanie’s Comments (group member since Feb 12, 2017)

Jeanie’s comments from the Navigating Indieworld Discussing All Things Indie group.

I just had someone in another group ask me to explain plot points. I thought this would be a better place than in the other group (for beta reading). So, here I am.

I think it is a great question as many new writers are unaware that there are various conventions that can aid them in focusing their works into coherent masterpieces. Given that right now I have a beta read to concentrate on, I thought I would at least start the topic on methods of plotting.

I encourage anyone to join in and let us know what you think a plot does, why it is important, or why it might be bologna. If not useless, then what is your favorite way to plot a story? Maybe you start from the middle, or maybe the end, or maybe the beginning... Maybe you like Bell or Lakin or someone else's method. Maybe you don't plot at all at first and it all works out in the end, which makes me bow: Hail to the panster.

Anyway, I'll post soon too. Can't wait to hear what others do!

...
"The crunching glass under my steps didn’t even move her. I knelt down with a tissue and bandage that I found in the medicine cabinet and dabbed the blood from her temple, expecting her to push me away. It was a small gash, not deep enough for stitches.
“No shame if you cried,” I said.
Seized by harbored grief, her eyes just fixed ahead like a scared doe, but her neck pulsed fast and hard. I smoothed the adhesive ends of the bandage lightly to her skin and ran my thumb over her temple, feeling a single pulse. Mine or hers? Both. We were beating in sync.
Unable to resist, I drew my thumb down her scar—over the barely tactile ridge of damaged flesh, a timeline moment on her face. She brought her hand to my wrist cuff and to the cadence of my thumb, she stroked the cruel leather, moved in closer, her eyes almost apologetic, as if she had caused me pain.
For the first time she was soft, so feminine, that only the most guarded walls could have hidden it before, and I became conscious of the weight of my hand on her face—the weight of my life on hers. I had never felt my weight on someone else before, not this way. And then she leaned in more—her smooth cheek brushing my face, her lips testing, teasing mine. My mind went searching, trying to decipher the meaning by its parts until I could see her spread out on the shattered glass and rubble, both of us stripped bare, me savagely plunging into this broken woman over and over, glass ripping into her back and into my arms and knees until we came together, feral, bloody, and crying out in our shared release of anger and disillusionment.
I could have been eager if I allowed myself, if I could forget Devonlee. But Cam’s dry green eyes reminded me. Neither Rob’s weight nor mine would make her cry out in anger anymore. There was no room. And I didn’t have room for someone like her. She wasn’t consenting, but kicked and looking for any comfort besides crying. It wasn’t my style to be that kind of comfort, though—to take without lucid permission, or to give with nothing in return. I might have been a man of the worst kind, but I was just good enough not to use or be used.
“Not now,” I said to her lips, those eyes. “Not like this, Cam.”
She removed her hand slowly, stood. “I see … You may prefer women in pain, but crying just fools the heart into having silly hope. It makes us forgive the unforgivable only to be blindsided again.”
“Come on, this is—”
“I’ll assure you, Aidan. The day I cry in your presence is the day I want your presence. Get your stuff. You’ll miss your flight.”
She left me speechless, regretful. I let her go without an explanation of my actions or intent.

Lightly altered for public post, but ...