Fuck, Marry, Kill–the Sherlock edition
Warning: This post contains spoilers for the most recent Sherlock (Season 4, episode 1) so avert your gaze if you don’t want to see a major plot point exposed.
Curt and I are huge Sherlock fans. In fact, Curt’s been a Sherlock Holmes fan since about the time he learned how to read. I got on at the Guy Ritchie/RDJ reboot and once Cumberbatch/Steven Moffat hit the BBC, I was hooked. So imagine our anticipation, our excitement, our New Year’s Day delight in knowing Season 4 was going to start last night.
And then we watched. Seriously, this episode belonged back in the dumpster fire of 2016. Oh, it started off innocently enough. We turned to each other when it finished, some kind of a smile for each of us, and expressed happiness and the little bits that were good and just a general post-Sherlock glow. Then I started.
“So one little thing that bugged me…”
2 hours later and we were still talking about it. I’ll save you the blow-by-blow and encapsulate our discussion in 2 words:
Lazy storytelling.
Again, I’ll save you the blow-by-blow of the many (many) examples of this and hit the one that I first started with, that bugged me the most.
Spoiler alert (if you’re still here!)
Mary’s death.
Now, to better examine Mary’s death, I bring a question I brought up to Curt last night: In the writer’s room, when they first started to break the story, what was the goal of the show? Seriously. When they all sat down, coffee in hand and laptops at the ready, what was the goal? “In S4E1, we want BLANK to go through BLANK to realize BLANK leading to BLANK.” I don’t think there was a clear answer to that–my only guess is they wanted to drive a wedge between Watson and Sherlock. (And here’s where my rage starts to build…)
Okay, boys and girls, what’s the quickest way to drive a wedge/bring to characters closer together/overall move the story forward? That’s right, it’s our old friends Fuck, Marry, Kill! (insert writer’s room applause here)
Goddamnit to hell and back, people–just because you CAN use a plot device that’s worked in the past doesn’t mean you SHOULD. There are many outstanding examples of Fuck, Marry, Kill being used well, but there are so many where they do not, and if you can’t tell the difference, then you need to practice your writing a whole lot more.
This makes me think of something that Jenny Crusie* once said–sex scenes are action scenes and need to happen FOR A REASON. There’s meaning behind them and emotion and something that led up to this point, and you can bet your ass there are going to be consequences from it; sex scenes can’t just be thrown in because the writer needs a way to bring two characters closer together. And I will go on to state that this is the same of any action scene, be it murder, a couple breaking up, a planet exploding, even robbing a convenience store; each and every one needs a reason, meaning, emotion, consequences. I’m damn sick of reading books or watching tv shows where it became obvious that Something Needed To Happen so presto, scripto–Fuck, Marry, Kill.
THIS IS LAZY WRITING!!!
If the goal was to drive a wedge between Watson and Sherlock, you could have had Mary go and Watson stay when that text came in so Mary picked Sherlock and bingo–wedge! Or you could have had Watson hear Sherlock egging Vivian on, Mary saying stop, Vivian shoots and Mary tries to push Sherlock out of the way (not jumping in front of the bullet, FFS) and she does get shot but survives and bingo–wedge! I could go on and on, but truth be told, the problems started long before Vivian shot so it’s really hard for me to build a better plot device on top of this sad, wobbly, pathetic house of cards. But you see where I’m going. MARY DID NOT HAVE TO DIE. There could have been plenty of chances for wedges and picking sides and consequences without it. In fact, I say that the levels of emotion and Jenga-like tower of consequences would have been stronger had she lived.
And don’t even get me started on Watson’s bus fling (or whatever the fuck that was…)
Just don’t do it, people. If Something Needs To Happen, make sure there’s a reason why, events that lead up to it, layers of emotions and consequences, consequences, consequences. Not just a bullet, a guttural “You swore you’d protect her” (beaten into our heads the whole episode so we wouldn’t miss the irony when Watson had to once more point it out) and the inevitable and painful Wedge Between Friends.
Cue anguish. Cue tears. Cue one epic facepalm smack.
Here endeth the lesson.
*I’m remembering this from many years ago and can’t quote exactly what she said, but I remember it as being ‘sex scenes are like action scenes’. The rest is my interpretation of that so any misquoting, incorrect attribution or general fuckups are mine and mine alone.
Why a Writing Challenge is Important (Secrets Within…)
So, last you heard from me was–gosh–over two months ago on March 20th. (I’d link it but it was a pretty small post and you know how to find it if you really do want to read it.) Anyhoozles, you are due an update, probably treats and booze too, but we’ll start with the update.
My 30 Days of Write Challenge for March? I did not accomplish a sentence a day for 30 of the 31 days, so one might argue that the challenge was a fail. However, I accomplished something much greater (two things, perhaps) so I call the challenge a great big bucket of win. This leads us to Outcome #1:
A writing challenge is what you make it, so don’t let the rules tell you otherwise or make you feel awful about how you finished.
Here’s what happened to me.
I was motoring along, doing my sentence (plus) a day, when something wonderful happened. I was driving to work, listening to the soundtrack to my book when another book popped into my head. This is one I’ve been working on for a while and it’s been vexing me. I’m thiiiiiiiiiiiiis close–got a strong, fierce heroine but my hero needed that one little something to put him in the neighborhood of the woman he was supposed to end up with. Well, something about the other book’s soundtrack and, what I truly and firmly believe is the writing muscle I’d been flexing during the challenge, came together to bop me on the head like Tinkerbell’s wand to say, “This is what your hero needs to be.”
Ka-blam. Pow. Holy shit. Cue fireworks. I had it. I had it!
This is where the writing challenged diverged in the yellow wood and I, I took the path less edited. Or needing to be edited, I guess, but yeah–I honored Tinkerbell’s bonk on the head and started editing the other book, knowing I was putting my sentence-a-day book on the back burner. But you know what? That’s okay, and it leads us to Outcome #2:
A writing challenge is what you make it, so if you need to leave or alter your original plan, it’s okay to do.
So the editing was going awesomely–I tore through the first quarter of my book by the end of March (so hell yeah, I’m calling my March challenge won and done!) and I was feeling great. But then something beautiful happened again and yes, dear reader, I’m calling this a direct result of the challenge, that writing muscle I’d been flexing–no matter how small–on a daily basis.
I’ve had this other book (don’t we all have about seventy kabillion ideas floating in our heads at any one time?) that I’ve been letting stew deep in the fecund writing stew of my brain. I had a soundtrack and oh damn did I have the characters in my head (and they’re so awesome together. {swoons}) and I had some crucial scenes but it wasn’t ready yet.
You know what’s coming, don’t you?
Ka-blam. Pow. Holy shit. Cue fireworks. Tinkerbell’s wand hit me again, gave me a plot point that just tied it all together with a neat little bow. And I started writing this story and it has been flowing so deliciously. I think I’m around 35K right now and am just loving the hell out of it.
So that’s where I’ve been for the past 2 months–editing and writing like a fiend, swimming with the tide my writing challenge started way back on March 1st. That book I started then? Yeah, it’s still in there, building and growing in the back of my head, and I know it’s going to have its moment like this current one did. It’s my process and I am Ned Flanders okily-dokily with it. Good lord willing and the creek don’t rise, this tide is going to carry me through the summer and into the fall. And if I need some help somewhere in there, well you can bet I’m going to get another 30 Days of Write started, give me the boost I need to get back where I need to be.
Yawp.
One Sentence Has Never Meant So Much
So, here I am at Day 20 for my 30 Days of Write challenge. I just wrote my official sentence (two of them, actually) for today, so I can tell you with swear-on-a-stack-of-bibles truth t
hat I am meeting my challenge. I haven’t even used my cheat day yet, though some days have been verrrrrrry close.
A sentence a day has been more difficult than I thought, but it’s also been more rewarding. I’ll talk about it more when I’m done and have had a little bit of time to reflect on my 30 Days of Write, but for now I can tell you this: it’s been amazing. Doing a sentence every day forces you to think about your story more than usual, because you have this once-a-day goal chained to your brain. Sure, it’s a tiny goal, but the effects are huge. The sentence is the pebble, but the ripples are the payoff.
Yawp.
30 Days of Write: Days 2-5
All I’m thinking right now is I’m a freaking genius. I set up this writing challenge so one sentence a day is a win (see? genius!) and so far, I am winning. Almost took my pass day yesterday but nope–got 3 sentences written. The box on March 5th gets marked with a big green check. Hooray!
And where I could hang my head and mumble about how sick I’ve been and how work was an extra helping of suck on Friday and all kinds of excuses, I’m not. This challenge is about more than that singular daily sentence, always was. It’s about getting back into the mode of writing, the constant brain-churning of characters and plot and arc and beats and themes and everything else that makes up a good story, and it’s working!
- My 7 or so sentences on Day 2 brought me a single line of description for my antagonist and, if I may say so, it is perfect.
- My 3 sentences on Day 5 wrapped up my first scene. The final sentence, the one that sets everything and ties my hero and heroine together in ways they cannot even begin to comprehend just makes me giddy, this-would-never-be-just-a-kiss giddy.
- And to get into writing mode, I’ve been listening to my Michael Hauge lectures over and over again. Though I’ve been keeping the current story in mind, something about listening to them yesterday gave me a few great tweaks for the one I’m about to start editing (code name: Bedlam) which is going to make it so much stronger!
So, you see, the writing is about more than single-story quantity; it’s absolutely about quality across all of my writing, from my current story to editing to even my blog posts. I could scrap my 30 Days challenge now and I’d be very comfortable declaring myself a winner, but I’m not going to. Just think–if I’ve made this much progress in 5 days, what can I do in thirty?
Yawp!
30 Days of Write: Day 1
I wrote yesterday. It was 11 sentences, but where that number may be small, my victory was huge, because I wrote. I knew it was going to be tough getting some momentum
going and the residual effects of my infection are being tiring, lethargic beasts, but I wrote and, as it was more than 1 sentence, fulfilled my challenge requirements. (Mama didn’t raise no fools…)
I’m still pretty wiped out today, still have tons of things to do, but you know what? Yup, I’m gonna write again. Those 11 sentences yesterday? Not only were they great for the simple fact that they were written, they’re also fabulous because I turned my hero from something a little beta, a little too nice, into an asshole. Not a raging one, but one who is flawed and has made some very bad decisions. Oh, don’t worry–he’ll pay for them and become a better person in the process, but I’m still going to torture the fuck outta him first. There are no easy love stories in my world.
Bring it on, Day 2.
30 Days of Write: March 2016 edition
First of all, thank you to everybody who voted for me in the #Swoonies2016. I did not make it out of the first round, but it was a total blast being nominated and, knowing Tessa Dare is in the finals? Well, this historical romance writer’s heart is happy and full.
Now, on to business. As you can tell from the title of this blog post, I’m setting up a writing challenge for myself. I’m coming off a nasty respiratory infection, have a epic shit-ton of things to do in March and need another thing on my to-do list like…well, like I need another thing on my to-do list. But I’m going to do it anyway.
Why?
Because I need to. I have to. The idea of a 30 Days of Write challenge (yes, I have one excuse day–we’ll get to that later) is a heavy weight, but I. Have. To.
I know me. Once I get a pace going, I’m damn near unstoppable, the USS Pamela Cayne, but the trick is getting that pace going. I’ve blogged about this before–the whole ‘getting a bicycle‘ going, and it’s still truth. But I’ve got this book…I’ve had this book for a while, all set up and ready to go, but then something happened about 2-3 weeks ago.
It changed.
I was doing some light noodling on it and with one “I wonder if…” turned this book on its fucking ear. It exploded–all kinds of crunchy goodness explosions. Plot points opened before me like I was Hermione with a wand, chemistry sizzled and popped like water thrown on hot oil, choirs of dark and twisty romance angels SANG.
But I have to get going on it, get past this sludge I fell into with my nasty infection and Tons of Other Things. And, it makes me think of one of my favorite philosophies–if it scares the shit out of you, that means you absolutely, positively should write it. I absolutely, positively do not have the time to start a writing challenge, but you can bet your sweet bippy I’m going to do it anyway.
All I have to do is write a sentence a day. 30 sentences and I will have conquered the March 2016 edition of 30 Days of Write. But I know me, if not today, then pretty damn soon I’m going to be writing much more than a sentence. Just like I know my competitive side won’t let me take that day off–30 Days of Write will turn into 31 Days of Fuck Yeah.
Join me if you’d like–I’m hoping to be talking about this on Facebook and Twitter, so if it’s one sentence a day, one photo posted online, one line of knitting on your scarf that’s taunting you, join me. Let’s see where we are on March 31st.
Okay, got two tortured and flawed characters who need to fall in love, got JT’s “Drink You Away” blasting on the iPod, got the best cheerleader in the world in my corner. Time to write.
![never_give_up_never_surrender[1]](https://pamelacayne.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/never_give_up_never_surrender1.jpg?w=495)
Sliding into the finish–NaNoWriMo
It’s November 30th. To many of you, that means you’re finishing NaNoWriMo, be it popping some celebratory beverage because you’ve already hit 50,000 words, or you’re still sprinting like a mother-fucker, aiming for that magic number anytime before 11:59 p.m. tonight. I am cheering you all on, if you wrote one word, or 50,001. More importantly, YOU should be cheering yourself, even if you didn’t get one of these:
Here’s why–you wrote. No, I’m serious–you wrote. That is something not everybody can or will do, and the fact that you sat down and wrote–one word or 50,001–means you deserve cheers, little certificates of awesomeness and every high-five in the world, so celebrate your writing no matter what your final word count is. And, I want to leave you with one final sentiment I read today (and sorry I didn’t get the author, because this is gold)–if you hit your goal, if you didn’t, keep writing. Your words don’t know what month it is.
THE FIGHTER AND THE FALLEN WOMAN’s week-a-versary
So, THE FIGHTER AND THE FALLEN WOMAN has been out in the world for a week now, and I can’t tell you how tickled I’ve been (and still am!) seeing it out and about. To celebrate FAFW’s week anniversary, I want to share the first scene with you, introduce everybody to Lady and King. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter One
London, 1883
In the twelve years Lady had been a mistress, a bangtail and a whore, she had never been afraid of a man’s kiss. Dockworkers with missing teeth, boys who didn’t know enough to open their mouths, bastards who turned what should have been something sweet into something ugly, she’d faced them all and earned her coin. This man before her now was something she’d never experienced—a man she wanted to touch her. The thought scared her worse than her first time.
“Pet, give the gent a proper kiss for luck,” her protector ordered with a naughty grin. “You want King to be lucky and win now, don’t you?”
Lady pushed her fear down with an ease born of practice and gave the men a sultry smile. “Of course I do, Mr. Adams, though I don’t think luck is going to have anything to do with it,” she said, eyeing the fighter from head to toe and back again. “This man has let you show once again that you own the very best, another champion to join me under the Adams name.” She leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Though I prefer to be under you all by myself.” She sucked his lobe between her lips, giving it a soft nip, and his throaty laugh sealed a moment’s safety to look at another man. To look at this man.
Framed by the timber and brick of the St. Katharine’s Warehouse, the walls glowing a hellish red in the flickering gas lamps, King looked like a mercenary kicked out of hell. He stood a few inches taller than she did, the two of them on opposite sides of six feet, and his square face was unremarkable except for the imperfection of a broken nose and what a gypsy woman she’d once visited called “eyes of an old soul.” He was dressed like a stevedore in his black boots, wool pants and faded blue shirt, and like somebody who worked on the docks, had the muscled physique to show for it. He wasn’t necessarily handsome, not in a traditional way at least, but Lady had never been attracted to the pretty men. She’d always felt drawn to the ones who looked like they’d been brawling since before drawing breath, broken and scarred. King fit that image and, more than once, Lady had wondered how she’d fit King.
Ever since that night almost three years ago when he’d helped her gain her balance as her broken ribs caused her to stumble on that last stair, and then whispered, “Willow bark. It’ll ease the pain,” Lady had discovered this newest bruiser of her protector’s had kindness tempered with his strength. Now, after years of keeping their touches to a hand into a carriage or an elbow on a slippery patch of wet cobblestone, she was being asked to perform one of the most intimate acts two people could share with this man she pictured when Mr. Adams fell asleep beside her. A kiss sounded so simple, but it would be safer to offer a drunk a fine brandy and then ask him to pass over the rest of the bottle. She felt herself looking at King’s lips as if a drop of that brandy still clung there.
“I do own the very best, indeed I do.” Mr. Adams clapped his hands and the sound was consumed by the crowd reacting to the introduction of the fighters. It snapped Lady out of her thoughts and allowed her to collect new ones. If she didn’t get her head back in Mr. Adams’s game, she’d pay a painful price later. “But I figure it can never hurt to have a little extra luck on your side, eh? But mind yourself it’s a little, King, not a lot. Where a bigger kiss might mean bigger luck, it’d also mean I would have to fight you myself.” Mr. Adams shook a finger at King in a joking manner, but there was no doubt that if King got too friendly with Lady without Mr. Adams’s permission, the joke would be over.
Mr. Adams pulled Lady close with one arm around her waist, his hand lightly grasping her hip. His head reached only to her shoulder, yet unlike most men, he seemed to enjoy having her tower over him, her blond curls tangling around his neck. He often said so before he tossed up her skirts.
“Now, Mr. Adams, no fighting your best man.” Lady managed a throaty laugh while she slid her arm around her protector’s shoulders. “You want him to be in the best possible form for tonight, don’t you?” She looked at King and waited for him to act his part in this little drama. She’d managed to play her role. The last thing she needed was Mr. Adams to be in a temper because King didn’t play his. Lady could act blasé about the kiss she was scared to give, but it would be so much easier for both of them if King said his lines. Yes, he was a powerful fighter and Mr. Adams liked that King was always winning, but winning was nothing without adoration. If King didn’t bring in money and make Mr. Adams smile while doing it, he would be killed. Lady woke every morning knowing that same fate could be hers if she didn’t keep Mr. Adams happy. Very happy.
King cracked a smile and Lady felt herself slump with relief. To cover her gaffe, she turned in Mr. Adams’s arms, trailed her finger down her protector’s chest and cocked her head coquettishly at King.
“Have no worries, miss. I’m set to win tonight, especially with such good luck in my corner.” He inclined his head toward her.
“Yes, you are.” Mr. Adams pointed a stubby finger at King, his whole manner suddenly more intense. Lady prayed it was merely excitement for the fight. “You’re going to win this tournament of mine and be crowned toughest bloke in the world.”
Lady beckoned to the betting man with a wave of her hand, hoping to return Mr. Adams to a more relaxed state. “If King says he’s going to win tonight, then I’m calling that a guarantee. And if I know Mr. Adams, he would say such a guarantee is worth wagering on.
“Five pounds on King to win,” she told the betting man and reached into the neckline of her dress for the bill. She took the scrip he gave her and tucked it back into the same place with some extra patting and smoothing.
“Aw, pet, spending your hard-earned blunt on my fighter? That means a lot to me, it does.” Lady simply waited for what was next. “Of course, you earned it after I spent my hard-earned blunt on you.” He finished with a braying laugh, thrusting his hips against her thigh.
Lady looked both coy and wicked, like she was supposed to. She stole a glance at King and saw his face harden before he forced an appreciative laugh. There was a part of her, perhaps the blushing girl she never was, that always felt a brief thrill that this man cared enough to be outraged on her behalf. The woman she’d become took that thrill and buried it in the same grave as the blushing girl. King had the strength to protect her and, more importantly, she felt deep down that he cared for her enough to want to do so, but for him to take any action greater than he already had would have terrible consequences. A gentle hand to support her, a handsome face to picture in the dark—that would have to be it. Anything else was too dangerous. She was a rich man’s mistress and he was a rich man’s thug, and the two did not mix.
“Thank you for your confidence, miss.” King took a step backward. “Mr. Adams, I need to go be announced. That is, if you don’t need me for anything else.”
“No, you’re fine. I know most everybody here.” He opened his coat to show the slim, leather-wrapped handle of a knife he wore at his waist when he went out. “I’ve got this if somebody gets too close, and that’s if they even get past Shade.” Mr. Adams jerked his head toward the shadows and Lady watched King follow with his eyes. She could tell when he spotted Mr. Adams’s other bruiser. He looked back at Mr. Adams, and Lady watched King’s face tighten, his shoulders pull back as though standing at attention, and she felt something icy crawl in her belly without even having to look at Mr. Adams.
“But if it’s not too much trouble to ask,” her protector said slowly, “it would make me feel better if you got that lucky kiss.”
She’d only heard that tone in her protector’s voice once before and the sound of it still caused her breath to seize, her ribs to ache. The injury had long since healed, yet her deepest fears knew that one brought about the other. King may not face the same fears, but she couldn’t chance that Mr. Adams would find new ones for both of them if they kept refusing.
“Perhaps you have found your fighter’s secret, Mr. Adams.” Lady had been trying for lightly mocking, though truth be told, she was just happy her voice didn’t tremble. “He’s scared to kiss a girl.”
“Trust me, King, this lady’s kiss is sweet. Nothing to be frightened of at all,” Mr. Adams said and chuckled in a moment of shared masculine appreciation. Except King didn’t look like he appreciated anything. He looked like he fought everything, from the invisible tether Mr. Adams held to the dreams he had at night.
She wouldn’t let him fight her, though, no matter how scared she was to do this. She stepped up to King, putting Mr. Adams at her back and out of her mind. “Come, King, it’s only a kiss,” Lady said, deliberately pitching her voice low. She would give the kiss and pray her trembling barriers would hold, keep her safe against the desire to close her eyes, breathe in his scent, and feel for one moment that a fighter and a fallen woman had a future together.
“Lady, you should know when it comes to you, it’s never only anything,” he whispered so that only she could hear. “It’s everything.”
Lady braced herself for a deeper look into King’s eyes and saw flecks of gold in the brown, a fading bruise ringing his left, and a wariness that matched hers. Beneath all that was a cold, empty place, but she couldn’t tell if it was his or a reflection of hers. She quickly lowered her eyes, praying he hadn’t seen anything tonight other than a reluctant whore. With a quick intake of breath, Lady glanced at King’s mouth, closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.
Warmth. Protection. Life. Lady could taste it on his lips, could feel it pulse around him like fire. For an instant, her entire body was flooded with heat and she longed to throw herself into it, knowing he would catch her and hold her close, protecting her from the flames while making her burn. It made her reach out, her fingers fluttering in the hidden recess between them, and she felt his hand already there, straining between sense and desire. He grabbed her hand only for an instant, but it was long enough to brand his touch on her skin before he let go.
Lady pulled back and her eyes drifted open, her held breath slipping from her mouth and into his. King was right. This would never be only a kiss.
Okay, here’s the deal…
Okay, so here’s the deal–my day job is hideous (I know–first world problems, but they’re real to me, so there ya go) and drains me both mentally and physically. I’m looking for something else, but in the meantime, that’s the deal. Right now it’s Saturday morning of a 3-day weekend and I would like nothing more than to curl up with my tea and read one of the mountains of books in my TBR pile or watch The Mummy or Pride and Prejudice or any number of a thousand DVDs and simply rest, but that’s not what I am.
I’m a writer. That means on this lovely, quiet Saturday morning, I’m going to write. Be it one paragraph or a word count in the thousands, I am going to write.
Wisdom of Bull Durham: Respect the Streak
I ca
n’t help it. Every time I think or hear the phrase “Respect the streak.” I think of Bull Durham. (Side note: Bull Durham has many life lessons, and I’m sure I’ll address them in the future, but for today, we’re going to stick with what to do with a streak.)
For those of you who have not seen Bull Durham (judgement withheld) or have forgotten this part of it, Crash (Kevin Costner) and Annie (Susan Sarandon) are having a fight about Crash’s mentoring of Ebby Calvin “Nuke” LaLoosh (Tim Robbins), specifically as it relates to Annie and Nuke’s sexual relationship. This is the gist of that fight:
Crash: I told him that a player on a streak has to respect the streak.
Annie: Oh fine.
Crash: You know why? Because they don’t – -they don’t happen very often.
Annie: Right.
Crash: If you believe you’re playing well because you’re getting laid, or because you’re not getting laid, or because you wear women’s underwear, then you are! And you should know that!
Wise words, Crash. Wise words, indeed. But why I’m bringing this up today is this–I’m on a streak. It started last Friday, so out of the blue I still can’t believe it. Now, part of the wisdom of Respecting the Streak, is a bit of superstition. If you believe you’re writing well for whatever reason, then you are! What I mean by that is I’m not going to say anything more about the streak, because I believe that talking too much about it drains it of its juju and I want to keep on drinking this particular glass of juju. May it never empty.
Respect the streak, people.
Pamela Cayne 