When I’m working on a project, there are always little
distractions from the main action that crop up in my imagination. Sometimes
these bits and pieces work out well. These are the subplots. They are everywhere.
For example, watch any episode of a popular television show,
like NCIS. While the main story is usually catching the bad guys, there are
often one or two little side stories that are a counterpoint to the primary
story. It could be about dating or marital problems, looking for a new
apartment, family issues or the latest project Gibbs is working on in the
basement. It adds more depth and dimension to the characters. Somehow, it all
ties together.
Since I don’t work with an outline, I usually draw these
ideas from everyday life. Something I may have witnessed or been a part of can
weave its way into a subplot. Like this recent conversation with my darling
wife.
‘I’m really achy today,’ she said.
“Did you try aspirin or Tylenol?” I asked.
She shook her head. Suggestions of ice or heat were waved
off.
“How about tequila?”
Her face lit up. “And prune juice!”
“What the hell is that? A senior’s version of a Margarita? A
Seniorita?”
Laughter ensued.
After which she pointed a finger at me. “That’s goes into the next book.”
You get the idea.
Here’s an example of a subplot from “Fleeing Beauty”. In this scene, Jamie is talking with Ian, the
15-year-old boy who has become an unofficial kid brother to Malone. Ian has been working with Jamie on the
project, unpacking all the artwork that was found in her late father’s
storeroom.
The desk and the cabinets were
locked up tight. I boosted myself up on the worktable, letting my legs dangle.
Ian finished zipping up the camera bag and looked at me. I patted the spot
beside me. With the grace of a natural athlete, he swung up and landed lightly
beside me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He gazed at me for a moment before
lowering his eyes to the floor. “It’s no big deal.”
“I think it is a big deal. You
obviously are very talented. Why hide it?”
He gave me the teenager’s answer to
everything, a shrug of the shoulders. I poked him with an elbow. “Talk to me,
Ian. There’s no one else here.”
“It was my dad. He always teased me
about drawing. He said I’d have more luck making it in baseball than I would
with art.” I took a moment to digest that. It was almost a year since the
accident that had taken his dad so abruptly from his life. There was no way I
wanted to harm the memories of his father.
“From what you and Malone have told me, your
dad was a great guy. His whole life was wrapped around his family.”
Ian knuckled a tear away. “Yeah, he
was always encouraging us, cheering us on at games, taking us on trips and
picnics, making us all laugh.”
“Do you think people change?”
“I dunno.”
“Don’t you think you’ve changed,
even in the last six months?”
He considered it. I got another
shrug.
“Ian, since we’ve met, I know
you’ve changed. You are growing, both physically and intellectually. And you’re
probably growing emotionally as well.”
“I dunno,” he repeated.
I put an arm around his shoulders.
“If you had met Brittany six months ago, would you have been comfortable
talking to her. Or kissing her?”
He brought his head up. A grin began to touch
the corners of his mouth. “No way could I have kissed her.”
“See, you have changed. I’ll bet if
your dad was around and saw how you’ve grown, he wouldn’t tease you about your
artistic talent. There are a lot of career possibilities for someone with an
art background. Besides, nobody says you can’t play baseball and be an artist.”
I gave his shoulders a squeeze. “And I’ll bet your father would be proud of the
young man you’re becoming.”
“Thanks, Jamie. It’s just so hard
sometimes. I think about something that happened during the day and want to
rush home to tell him. For a minute, I forget that he’s gone.”
“I understand.” I could feel the
tears welling up in my eyes.
“I just really miss my dad.”
I nodded, the words sticking in my
throat. Ian turned and wrapped his arms around me and started to cry. I hugged
him tightly. “I miss mine too.” We sat there on the worktable, letting the
tears flow, surrounded by this room of artistic wonders. Nothing else mattered.
This week's musical interlude comes from Eric Clapton. Enjoy!
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