Plot Or People? One's Usually First, For Writers

 One of the reasons I'm struggling a bit with my new writing project is that I usually start with a plot, then find characters to fit into the story. This has drawbacks, the biggest being that as I create my characters, they sometimes become so real to me that they start saying things I don't want to hear:

"Yeah, I know you plan for this to happen, then that to happen--but I just wouldn't do those things."

You're just a character, do what I tell you.

"Fine. That'll be my voice in the back of your mind--and you ain't heard nagging yet."

Don't even get me started on Beth Hamlin.

 

Stupid characters. But they're usually right, and I've been known to make changes accordingly. Just the same, I start out with a plot, and the major plot points usually stay the same, as does the ending.

This time out I started with great characters: a group of firefighters on a fictional department somewhere in the Midwest. I had a great setting, background on all of the above, and even some scenes already playing in my mind.

But no plot.

I did have a general arc going on in the background, but mostly the story was about the day to day lives of my characters, and the challenges they faced on the job. It was episodic, like a series of short stories put together, or a TV show about firefighters, of which there are many. My favorite remains "Emergency!", which is indeed put together that way. Season long plot arcs would have been laughed at, back then.

Can I find new story ideas from personal experience? Yes. Yes, I can.

 

But I want a plot. I'm a plot guy.

And here's the thing: I have identified a plot idea, but it's deadly serious, tragic, and very "ripped from the headlines". If you know my writing, you know I generally keep to light escapism, and my characters are all set to have a lot of fun in their life and death careers.

I'm not asking for a solution, mind you (although if you want to offer one, hey!) I'm only complaining because talking out loud helps me resolve these dilemmas. It seems to be working: Even as I write this I realize the Big Bad event I've contemplated would set things up for future books in a series, if that should happen.

And those future plot ideas I have come up with; all I need is an opening.

 

 

(Remember: Every time you buy a book, a writer's career could blow up. Not literally. Well, maybe in my case.)

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

My Magnetic Resonance Personality

I spent a lot of time in medical facilities, usually as a visitor, occasionally as a patient. And yet--this will come as a surprise to my fourteen regular readers--I've never had an MRI. Until a few years ago.

Oh, plenty of X-rays, and a biopsy. The MRI was oh, so much more fun, in a world where "fun" is relative.

 The Magnetic Resonance Imaging test was to find whether there might be cancer in my prostate, and also, I suppose, to confirm my head wasn't up there. As I said earlier, there was no cancer, which doesn't mean there were no surprises.

We were told by various armchair testing experts that the MRI would take around twenty minutes. luckily, my wife brought a book with her anyway. It would take an hour, the med people said as they presented me with the only good surprise of the day: scrubs to wear, instead of one of those weird back exposing half-shirts you couldn't tie shut with duct tape and Superglue.

The people there (who were very nice, by the way), asked a laundry list of questions designed to make sure I had no metal on me. There was a pause when I told them I had a piece of metal in my upper chest. Where was it from? I told them "Nam", with a fairly straight face, because the truth is just too mundane.

"Well," one replied, "if your Viet Cong shrapnel starts to heat up, or if any other area catches fire, let us know."

I've seen metal fly into the air before, and it's always very exciting.

(FYI, I was thirteen when the Vietnam War ended. I really need to update that particular lame joke.)

I was also told not to touch my hands to each other, or I might look like one of those movie superheroes generating lightning between their fingers.

As you slide into the little tube, they give you a bulb to hold in one hand. Squeezing it sets of an alarm. One reason for this is because you're packed into that thing so tightly even people with no fear of enclosed spaces feel like the lowest sardine in the pack.

They put headphones on me, because the MRI machine makes more noise than a reelected Congressman on his third drink. I was looking forward to some nice music, or any music, but these were just regular headphones--the music ones were on back order. Instead I was serenaded by the grinding and buzzing of a machine so loud I heard it plainly even with headphones and earplugs. It was like trying to sleep in a jet engine.

And every once in awhile the thing suddenly moved, which no one warned me about. I thought some giant was squeezing me out onto his toothbrush.

But the weirdest thing that happened was right after they turned it on, when someone started tugging on that bulb in my hand. I was startled, because no one was in the room. My hand was floating into the air, as if the Force was trying to get me to lift my car to a closer parking spot.

Then I realized it wasn't my hand lifting into the air--it was my ring. It was trying to float away and take my finger with it, which feels just as weird as it sounds.

This very ring, which, yes, could have come from Uranus.

 

It turns out rings are usually not of a material affected, so Magneto can't try to make you dance from one arm. MRI technicians often don't bother with them.

But my wife, knowing my interest in astronomy, got me a wedding ring made from a meteorite--an iron meteorite. Magneto could go to town on me. 

After that all went well. The sliver of steel is still in my chest--Gulf War?--and I passed the time by plotting out a new novel. It's going to be about a guy who gets transported to another world through an MRI machine.

Or Magneto.

 

Remember: Every time you buy a book, a Terminator gets stuck to an MRI machine. Save John Conner.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

Doctor Finger Probes Prostate Problem

I want to start out by saying I do not have cancer, and this story actually happened some time ago. So not to worry.

But the docs thought I might ... for several years. Specifically, I had high prostate specific antigen readings, otherwise known as PSA. That's why I kept having to visit my urologist, Doctor Finger. What a pain in the ass.

But it could be worse. I always thought a urologist dealt with urine issues, and I don't want anyone's finger going up that way.

So they tested, and probed (!) and tested again, during which time I was told I might have cancer ... or not. So then they went in with a needle and took about a dozen samples, something called a biopsy. Do you want to know where they go in with a needles to get those samples?

No. No, you do not.

A James Webb Space Telescope image of my prostate.

It came up, um, clean, but the PSA count stayed high. Way high. Too high. Something was wrong.

(Some men go for years with high PSA ratings, without ever getting cancer. Women rarely have high PSA readings, what with them not having prostates. But men don't often have to get mammograms, so never mind.)

And so, in desperation, Doctor Finger sent me to get an MRI. That stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging, and costs about a hundred dollars a letter. That's $600 just for the magnet. (Buying and installing one MRI machine can cost more than three million dollars.)

I'll be writing separately about the MRI ... it was an experience. Honestly, I'd much rather go through it again than have a physical exam by my urologist, who's a really nice guy but has big hands. The MRI took an hour, and the digital exam a few minutes, but it felt the opposite.

I know you're anxious to see the results ... um, hear--hear the results. Well, there was no immediate sign of cancer. Yay!

But my prostate was, quoting Doctor Finger, "as big as my head". And his head is even bigger than his hands.

If the prostate was a balloon, mine would be the Hindenburg.

Now, here's the fun part: My prostate is two and a half times its normal size. He explained that PSA readings are like harvesting crops: The bigger the field, the more crops you harvest. So, since my prostate was bigger, my PSA count was naturally bigger, too.

See where I'm going with this?

Yeah. For ten years when I might have had cancer because of unusually high PSA counts, my PSA counts were NORMAL.

So.

You know, I lead a fairly stressful life already; I don't need any help. Just sayin'.

Remember: Whenever you don't buy a book, an author has to have a colonoscopy. Save their ass.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

Wake Me When Valentines Day Is Over

Note: I stumbled upon this post from 2006 recently, and thought it gave an interesting look at my viewpoint at the time--after my first marriage, but before my second. In other words, I'm much happier now.

 

What am I doing February 14th? Let’s see: I have a doctor’s appointment that day, and not with the “Love Doctor”. I’ll fit an early dinner in -- just me, with no chocolate for dessert in any form. Nor do I plan to buy myself, or anyone else, jewelry.

What do I have against Valentine’s Day? For starters, I was one of those Charlie Brown type kids who waited hopelessly by the mailbox for a Valentine that would never come. Eventually I got married – on Valentine’s Day. I’m no longer married. Get the picture? I could have just as easily gotten married on Christmas, and spent the rest of my life shooting at Santa’s sled with guided missiles.

 

I’m as romantic as the next person. Well, the next man. I’m up for hand holding, candlelit dinners, full body massages, and lingerie. Lingerie’s questionable, of course: Sexy female underwear is a gift for the giver, not the wearer. Personally, I love lingerie – but I’d never wear any. It’s uncomfortable (Okay, I assume), overpriced, and under covering, but it sure looks good on women …

Where was I?

The point is, I'm smart enough not to gift a microwave, or a new vacuum cleaner. Okay, once, but that was a joke, I swear, and the bruises healed.

Guys, it is not the thought that counts. It’s vital to understand that. It doesn’t matter how much you love that pair of season tickets to your favorite sportsball team. Also, you get no brownie points for recognizing that your lady needs a new mop. You can put on all the lovely wrapping and pretty bows you want, and she’s still going to wrap it around your neck.

After that it gets a bit more difficult. Candy is iffy, for instance. You might get the, “I’m trying to lose weight!” cry. “Don’t you care about me? How can you torture me like this?”

You could always give her a dozen eggs, but jewelry would be cheaper.

 

Just to clarify, I’m trying to lose weight, and yet would still gladly accept chocolate as a gift. In case anyone was wondering.

Cards are great, of course, but they don’t qualify as the gift – they go with the gift. Also, on this holiday funny cards are not funny. Go for something with poetry in it, and not poetry that starts with, “There once was a man from Nantucket”.

Flowers are generally safe, unless she’s allergic. Buying flowers goes against a man’s instinct: He doesn’t understand the point of something that doesn’t feed anyone, do anything, or provide entertainment, and soon becomes ugly and worthless. The parallels to your average politician are obvious.

Still, Valentine’s Day, like a wedding, is for women, not men. So going for the flowers seems like a good idea, until you consider the fact that certain flowers mean certain things. This flummoxes men. What do you men, yellow roses mean something different than pink roses? They’re flowers, man! Who made these rules? Who cares?

Yes, it's cheaper to pick something out of the yard, but tell me where you'll find this in mid-February.

 

Well, the women care, that’s who. Get on the internet, ask a florist. You’ll soon find that baby’s breath has nothing to do with projectile vomiting, and that presenting a lady with black roses may not bring the reaction you’d hoped for. You might even be startled to find there actually are flowers other than roses. Carnations are more than condensed milk, fellas.

If all else fails – and it will – there’s another choice: Jewelry.

Yes, it's expensive. Get over it. Many women like sparklies, and I’m not talking about the finish of your new fishing boat. Speaking of which, if you’ve bought any “boys toys” in the last year, she will inevitably compare the value of her gift with the value of the toy. She may think, “He loves his boat/gun/four wheeler/golf clubs more than me!” She’ll be right, but believe me, admitting that is not the answer.

So suck it up, and get her the jewelry. And if your own toy is a brand new bass boat, add in the flowers and a really nice card, the one with three digits in the price. Think of it as insurance – you want to avoid those sudden glares that seem to happen out of the blue, which can lead to raging battles when you admit not knowing why she’s mad. You’re guaranteeing a peaceful home life and a contented significant other.

At least, until her birthday. You’ve got that marked on the calendar -- right?

 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"