Manufactured Drama

Soon after the movie THAT THING YOU DO came out I saw an interview with Tom Hanks where he was defending the movie's light tone. He mentioned that he didn't see the need to add drama just for the sake of having drama.

This past week I spent a rare evening watching TV dramas and found Mr. Hank's words to be wise. These shows were full of manufactured drama. It was painful to watch. I'd seen these shows in the past and while they aren't my preference they weren't bad shows. This night however, they stunk. All three shows summoned forces from outside the show, even from outside the story, to come and ruin the lives of the characters. It was so artificial and wrong.

So why do I care? Because these extreme examples have shown me that I also have committed the sin of manufactured drama. Several stories I've written, apparently when I got bogged down in the action, are propelled in new directions by inorganic circumstances.

Forgive me dear reader, for I have sinned.

100 words: Leather Lady

From a distance she was beautiful. Long blond hair. Leather jacket, pants and boots. The biker's dream.

Then the picture went wrong. She pulled one of those rolling cases like the bimbo saleswomen pull so clumsily through doorways. A biker sales bimbo?

She stopped and stooped to pick up a styrofoam box off the sidewalk. She opened it, pulled something out and shoved it in her mouth. She dropped the box and walked on. She passed right by me. Methed-out eyes focusing on nothing. Deep scars pitted her face. She staggered away.  

From a distance she had a great ass.

Why can't I be a drunken asshole?

 A comedian friend of mine once did a routine pondering why so many famous talented writers were drunken assholes. Charles Bukowski had just died and he was the main focus of her rant. Good example I thought. It made me do an inventory of my own favorites and found that many were indeed drunken assholes. 

 I have since been dismayed that perhaps my own writing career might be doomed to obscurity unless I started boozing and copped some serious attitude. I have attempted both on occasion with feeble results. Much to my horror it turns out that I'm a very quiet and subdued kind of drunk. Hardly the stuff that attracts legions of cult-like readers.

 So what's a sober, mild-mannered writer to do? Where's the passion? What gets the blood pumping? 

 For me, it's cycling. We're not talking a casual ride in the park. When I'm on my bike I'm always pushing as hard as I can, going as fast as I can. An adrenaline rush? Yes. The stuff of legends? Hardly. It's depressing that the only narcissism I can muster is actually good for me.

 At least I still have the blood curdling nightmares so maybe there is hope for me yet. 

A Perfect Moment

One day last week I sat at my computer keyboard in my RV parked on the Oregon coast in the middle of a heavy downpour working on my latest novella. I looked up from the screen and out at the wind-swept sea just as some sea lions frolicked their way south. A perfect moment.