Act 1: Love and Loss Chapter 1: Life As It Always Is

Diary entry 7/9

I am not much of what you would consider to be a lovebird. 

My boyfriend- Phil or Philly Cheesesteak or even Cheese for short-would probably agree. Ever since we met way back in the 5th grade, he had a crush on me, and yes, although it took a while, I eventually got a slight crush on him which he leapt on almost immediately. From that day forward he was my lovey-dovey, and, yes, cheesy, ride or die. 

Now Phil was very much into the idea of soul mates and I…was not. I strictly believe in the fact that although there are some people who seem made for each other, no one really is. I mean how many times have you seen “soul mates” fall into despair and a disturbing amount of divorce? Yeah, far too often. Despite this, I decided to take him on board the ship of my life and attempt to ignore this belief in favor of my own aptly titled “Jocelyn's 3-Step Guide to Being Happy in a Situation Where Only One of You is in Love”. I would use the acronym ‘J.T.S.G.B.H.S.W.O.O.Y.L.’ but it seems a bit too unwieldy. Despite the name being so long, the concept of it is rather simple actually. It goes something like this: 

Step 1: “Find things to do.” No one-sided love life will ever make it off the ground if you sit and stare into each other's eyes all day. It is upheld by taking every moment to do something like going to the arcade or to the carnival. Whatever it takes to keep yourself occupied and your lover happy. 

Step 2: “Learn to cook.” If there is only one thing that my mother ever taught me it's that the key to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Phil is no exception, but rather a reinforcement of this stereotype. His favorite food? Ravioli. How many times could he eat it in a row until he got bored of it? Till the end of time. I will not lie when I say this has been one of the few things on this short list that I despise. Cooking has been the bane of my existence since when I was little and learning how to make a grilled cheese but, in order to keep this wreck together and keep my parents happy, this has worked thus far. 

That brings us to Step 3: “Complement often.” Your lover is kept in love by the fact that he or she feels like you make them a better person. To make sure of this you must say things like “your hair is so soft”, “you are such a good writer”, or maybe even, “you are so cute when you pound down five entire plates of ravioli in one sitting.” constantly. Yes, I actually did say that last one, which made him giggle in his pasta-fueled stupor. Although you may dish out all of these compliments, never, ever, ask for him to compliment you back. If you do, he might get annoyed, so just let him do it on his own- if he ever will. 

With these three steps and an insane amount of luck you too can be just like me, kach…sorry horrible reference, Cars is like my favorite movie of all time. Anyways, as I was saying, if you follow these steps without fail or deviation you can get any guy to fall in love and stay in love with you even if you want them to or not, employ and enjoy at your very own discretion and, for all legal purposes, you didn’t get this from me.

Setting aside the heavily chewed pencil, Jo’s mind began to wander as it always did. She thought about classes, about Phil, and eventually their cat Emily. She thought back to a couple weeks ago when they had to take their beloved orange tabby to the vet. On this thought, she yelled into the house behind her. “Honey! Where is the cat? Did Emily get into the cupboard again?”

“Nope.” 

A short moment later, accompanied by quiet meows of protest, Phil came into their room hauling the overweight tabby in his arms causing her to rapidly shut the notebook with the words ‘Jo Thatcher- Accounting Mon/Wed/Fri 8:00 AM’ which was filled, for the most part, with endless scrawls of things like ‘balance sheets’ and ‘depreciation’. She wasn’t usually one for diaries but her therapist said last week that it could help her anxiety to keep one. However, she didn’t exactly own a separate journal, so her class notebook would have to do.

“Where was she?” 

Phil spilt the cat onto their bed. “In the closet, nesting in my socks.” 

Their college apartment was small with only four rooms: the bedrooms, one of which was converted to a closet of sorts, a kitchen, and the hallway if you could count that. ‘The socks’ which Phil referred to was a pile of mismatched and misstored socks sitting in the corner of the closet. 

“You still need to clean that.” 

Jo teased, knowing her food vacuum of a boyfriend wasn’t about to even touch the increasingly messy stack. He laughed, hearty and befitting of someone nicknamed Philly Cheesesteak. 

A moment after plopping on the bed beside Emily, he spoke mostly to the ceiling although it was intended for her. “Hey Jo, you wanna get some coffee? I’ve been dying to check out that new cafe down in Klines.” 

Klines was the sort of official name of the industrial district of Morgantown, legend has it that Klines was the name of some ancient monarch who supposedly conquered only the western most part of this small patch of area of land but given that they were in the middle of West Virginia it was likely an old prank that some frat kid pulled in the 50s and the name stuck.

“Of course, Cheese.” She glanced at the clock, it read 6:30 p.m, “I just have a bit more work to do on some Accounting, you know how it is. Once I’m done, we can go, alright?” 

He sat up, leaning onto the mattress. “Sure, I suppose I should probably do some work, too.” 

He gave her a small peck on her cheek before leaving her alone with the notebook once again. Instead of opening it, she just stared at the composite texture allowing her eyes to glaze over. 

You cannot keep this up Jocelyn. It will catch up to you someday.

“Strange place.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

They whispered over the post-modern style table inside a brutalist coffee shop that resided in their very rustic town. To say it stood out like a sore thumb would be an insult to all thumbs in the world. 

In front of Jo sat a mocha, if you could call it that, it was more like if you took coffee from a young age and told it tales of chocolate and expected it to become cacao beans. The subliminal hint of chocolate was metaphysical rather than actual, and instead all she tasted was bitter roast. 

Before Phil sat a surprisingly normal muffin beside a tall plastic cup filled with something about the color of gasoline. At one point it may have been tea but, after years of solitary confinement in the container from which it was conceived, it lost the will to be good and became more like a strange fusion between a cold glass of paint thinner and a whole container of cinnamon. Phil took a slow, methodical sip and puckered before speaking in a rather blunt voice. “This sucks.” 

Jo sniffed. “Can we leave now? We’ve stayed for more than fifteen minutes.” 

Fifteen minutes was the buffer that Phil had put up between Jo and being socially desolate. There was no real punishment if she left somewhere before she had stayed for that long but she knew that Phil would not be very happy with her.  

He nodded. Together they stood and, not even bothering to spare the strange place a second glance, walked out the door. He held his hand out to his side whilst hers were jammed into her too-small pockets, each one breathing in the night air. As they walked home neither said a word, almost as if the bad drinks had stolen their tongues right out of their mouths. Jo looked to the moon then over at her boyfriend, whose eyes resided on the sidewalk.

Jo couldn’t help but think that he almost looked sad. After an awful experience like that, I shouldn’t be surprised.

As they reached the door of their modest apartment, she found herself thankful tomorrow was Saturday. “Hey babe, how would you like to go to the carnival tomorrow?” 

Phil’s sullen face shifted slightly towards the positive “I think…I would like that Jo.”

Round and round it goes. 

Her eyes traced the rotation of the cheerily lit ferris wheel in the distance. It was common past time to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon at the carnival and, in terms of “the perfect day”, this was as close to it as you were going to get. Although the unrelenting sun pounded down on the flattened ground, it was balanced, like a well-made top you would buy at a curiosity shop, with just the sweetest dash of wind. The second that her foot touched the dirt, the memory of the horrendous coffee torture house slipped away on the breeze along with the vibrant scent of cotton candy and deep-fried-you-name-it. 

The pair stepped up to the ticket booth and were met by a teenager who was almost too tall for the small stall. In a voice not unlike Eeyore from Winnie The Pooh, he began to drone. “Two adults? That’ll be twenty bucks. Cash or card?”

Phil handed over a Jackson and claimed the unnaturally yellow tickets. “At Pallies everyday is a good day.” 

The cashier groaned the infamous slogan as they began walking towards the best part of the carnival: funnel cakes. They stood together near the rusted orange splendor of the ancient food truck watching the heavenly dough sizzle and turn into the signature golden swoops and swirls associated with better days. Phil ordered before her and so it was customary that he should receive it first. Despite this norm, Jocelyn, who ordered something arguably simpler got hers well in advance. Sugar and cinnamon. Simple, yes, elegant, you know it, and in the hands of a hungry woman it was also perfect. Phil’s funnel cake arrived barely a moment after hers. His usual edible abomination held the fitting title of ‘Dream Ultimate Cheesecake Surprise’�"the surprise was the sheer amount of calories that could be crammed in such a small five inch vessel. The benches were not comfortable, but the dirt cheap wood seats seldom were. As they sat taking in the funnel cake, splinters and the midday heat, Jocelyn's eyes were drawn yet again to the multicolored ferris wheel. Determined to board it she sped up her consumption of the deep fried dough. It was through a still partially full mouth that she mumbled, with an unshakable conviction, “I’m getting on it.” 

Phil didn’t need to ask what ‘it’ was, she rode ‘it’ every time they came and every time he gave the exact same response: “Have fun, honey”. 

He was not about to join her either. Cheese steak was notorious for his motion sickness. If it was a crime to throw up on a car ride he wouldn’t just have a large bounty on his head but he would be the proud bearer of the title ‘public enemy number one’. Even glancing at the slowly rotating wheel made his head dizzy and so, without looking up from the food, he said those three customary words: “Have fun, Honey.” 

With these words of confirmation, she swallowed the last sugary bite and briskly marched towards the waiting line. In the grand scheme of the universe half an hour is but a speck on the miles wide lapel of the suit coat of eternity. But to Jocelyn this speck was approximately the size of an iceberg and, just as it sunk the Titanic, it too was sinking her patience. But, within the hour the line had melted to her specific spot on the side of the iceberg. 

The enormous pinwheel stopped on a faded purple seat and the short boy standing next to it helped out a young couple. Once they had been let down, he turned to the line and spoke in a tone not dissimilar from that of the ticket seller. “Next up.” 

Without a second thought and without a hint of hesitation she stepped onto the seat. It was only when she was locked in that the nature of said seat was made known to be…less than safe yet she sat anyway. She was confident that the universe would not allow her to die today. Shoving this existential thought into the darkest recesses of her mind, the wheel began to turn. After the first couple jitters and bumps Jocelyn became accommodated to the sketchiness of the ride and, instead of holding on for dear life, she instead looked down upon the people below. She could see Phil, the miniature cheesesteak, sitting on the bench next to the funnel cakes from her perch. He didn't even bother looking at me. 

She tried waving but he didn’t notice that either. Well, his eyes were never really the best. 

180 degrees later and the bottom approached yet again. Currently she was sitting alone but, as the wheel came to a jittery halt, the operator opened the latch over her lap and into the seat stepped a man. While she was heavily aware what it was that constituted a man she was not quite prepared for the perfect specimen that was less than a step away from practically being in her lap. Tall, blonde, strong, sexy… Oh. My. God… this wasn’t just a man, this was a Man, the kind you only spelled with a capital ‘M’ out of awe. Instinctually, she shifted to the outer edge of the seat which was still only a couple inches away from his black cargo shorts. He sat nonchalantly gazing at the fairgrounds with that woman trap of a smile filled with gleaming teeth that were white as snow and his arm, formed in all the right ways, laying across the back of the seat. Phil’s teeth were never that clean. She could feel his hand accidentally touch her shoulder and her heart jumped, as did Jo. The man saw her sudden movement and laughed, “I promise I won't bite.” 

She felt her cheeks start to turn a light crimson. “I… um I never thought you did…” 

She laughed nervously and turned away embarrassed. God, how old are you? Twelve? This isn’t the first time you have seen a somewhat handsome dude. Ok maybe he was a bit above average… No. You have a boyfriend. Get a grip, Jocelyn.

He continued to look at her then turned back to the fairgrounds in silence. It was half a rotation before he spoke again. “My name is Clint.” 

He offered out the hand that was once behind her back.

She finally decided to face him in his stupidly perfect jawline. She shook his hand, it was soft like silk, yet still quite firm. A small tingle rushed up her arm and into her heart. “I’m Jocelyn, but you can call me Jo, everyone calls me Jo. So like why wouldn’t you? Only if you want to, of course… Clint.” 

Cheeks still rosy, she sat as upright as she could and hid under a shroud of false confidence. He flashed the smile again, perfect teeth reflecting the glint of the day. “Pleasure to meet you Jo.” 

Although the whole encounter with pretty boy Clint only lasted maybe fifteen minutes but it felt almost double that time. The exchange of numbers made absolutely certain, in Jo’s mind at least, that they would in fact see each other again. The only question that seemed to be bouncing around the cavity in her skull was that of ‘When?’

She set her hands flanking the laptop. Manuscript creation had always been hard on her mind and storyline even more so. She wanted to introduce the new love interest further, there must be drama. Afterall she was a drama writer and where there is love there drama follows shortly behind. She took a large sip of the tall coffee that stood beside the computer, black like midnight. Through the sourness of the nearly tar-like roast she gained an idea. After a second of mind mapping he began typing once more at an immense pace determined to finish at least another chapter before going home.

Reviews

[JayG]

Because you’ve not yet acquired the skills of writing fiction—skills under refinement for centuries—and are still using the nonfiction report-writing skills we’re given in school, this is written like a report. You, the only one on stage, are talking AT the reader about things meaningful to you, without ever giving the reader context.

But look at the opening as your reader must:

• I am not much of what you would consider to be a lovebird.

Someone of unknown age, gender, situation, and appearance, who lives in an unknown place, at an unknown time, makes a statement that’s so general as to have meaning only for the one making it. After all, how would you know what I would "consider to be a lovebird?"

• My boyfriend- Phil or Philly Cheesesteak or even Cheese for short-would probably agree.

You’re trying to be cute, and it shows. But that aside, who cares? Lacking context, why would a reader WANT to know more?

A story's opening lines are critical, because you must generate a need to know more in the reader or-they-turn-away immediately. But as a reader who just arrived, who cares that someone we know nothing about isn’t interested in displays of affection?

• From that day forward he was my lovey-dovey,

Makes no sense. The person speaking is against displays of affection, yet this fool was their “lovey-dovey?” You’re saying things for effect without regard for logic or what your protagonist would DECIDE to say (as against dutifully reciting YOUR scripted lines). And that’s a killer. Your reader expects to be entertained. And what’s entertaining about the author proclaiming their personal philosophy disguised as a diary entry?

• Setting aside the heavily chewed pencil, Jo’s mind began to wander as it always did.

Seriously? So this person’s mind is ALWAYS wandering? It’s not what you meant, but it is what you just told the reader. "You know what I mean," doesn't work in print, because they don't.

Here’s the problem: Though you’re not aware of it, you’re writing this as a report not a story, because you’re still using the report-writing skills of school. Like almost all hopeful writers, you’ve missed a critical point: Commercial Fiction Writing is a profession. And like all professions, it has a body of skills and specialized knowledge that must be acquired in addition to the general skills of school—skills—that prepare us for employment and other needs of adulthood.

By design, our school-day writing skills can only inform. So, using those skills, every word of your story, is fact-based and AUTHOR-centric. It’s all you talking TO the reader, in a voice that contains none of the emotion you place into it when you read, because you’re not there reading it. Have your computer read it to you and you’ll hear why that can’t work.

Remember, your reader is expecting you to entertain, not inform them. They want you to make them feel they’re the one living the events in real-time, not hearing a synopsis of them, secondhand. They want excitement and raw meat, not facts—as you do when you read.

Since first grade, every book you’ve chosen was written with the skills of the profession and edited by professionals. Right? You don’t recognize the decision-points and tools in use as you read, but you enjoy the result of their use, and like everyone else, will turn away immediately if they weren’t used—as-will-your-reader until you make those skills yours. There is no way around that, and, there are no shortcuts. To write fiction you need the tools of fiction because nothing else works, even for hobby writing.

There’s no reason you can’t make those skills yours, and they make the act of writing a lot more fun, but without them, you'll lose the reader before the end of page one.

So…grab a good book and dig in, because the Creative Writing semester you’re taking, or will take, is about writing creatively, not how to write for publication.

Some things to try:

The very best book on writing fiction I’ve found is Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which you can download here:

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

The site is often blocked on college networks, though. And if so, check the college’s library.

Alternatives are, Jack Bickham’s, Scene and Structure, and Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict.

Keep in mind that nothing I’ve said relates to your talent, writing skills, or potential. So whatever you do, hang in there and keep on writing.

You also might want to check a few of my articles and YouTube videos, for an overview of the many traps and gotchas awaiting the hopeful writer.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

- - - - - - - - -

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”
~ Alfred Hitchcock

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

[Briar Ellison]

Hey man, thanks for the review! Next time I think you should maybe consider being a bit more pleasant with your words which you prize so highly? It's alright that my writing style isn't your cup of tea. I also never pretended to be perfect. I am not writing for profit, just for the fun and joy of creation. Have a wonderful day and go read something you want to read. No need to waste time on an amateur.

[Davidgeo]

Most of those words in clown baby's review were AI generated anyway, so don't take Jay too seriously. He's a f*****g moron's version of a dumb assed self proclaimed "writing coach". I'd review you proper, but, I'm only good for poetry. I have no good advice other than pointing out Jay's cunty nature.

[Briar Ellison]

Yeah, I admit that they felt a bit too provocative and stale. Thanks for confirming that he's not the greatest. Also no need for a proper review, although thank you for thinking about it, but you reading it was enough for me :)

[JayG]

• Next time I think you should maybe consider being a bit more pleasant with your words which you prize so highly?

Do you want accuracy or false praise? An acquiring editor, reading it as a submission wouldn’t be nearly so kind—and believe me, I was. They would have turned away on line one, for the reasons given. And they have nothing to do with talent. Your wordsmith skills are okay, but your approach is still that of the nonfiction, report-writing we learned in school. That's fixable, which is why I suggested those books.

• It's alright that my writing style isn't your cup of tea

I don’t critique based on my tastes. The things I told you would appear early in any book on writing techniques.

The problem is that like most hopeful writers you’ve done nothing toward acquiring the skills of the Fiction Writing profession—and it is a profession. That’s certainly no crime, but unless you take the time to learn the skills that have been developed over centuries readers will turn away, quickly, because nothing else works, even-for-hobby-writing.

Had you bothered to check you’d know that I’m multi-published, have taught fiction-writing at workshops, and owned a manuscript critiquing service, and have 30 books on sale. On the other hand, Davidgo, the troll who follows me like a puppy hoping for a head-pat, has written NO fiction, has had no publisher say yes, writes poetry so badly that he has to add other people’s music videos to it, in hopes of getting comments, but still gets a comment or two on half his posted work.

But...trolls aside. If you want to write readable fiction, take advantage of all that’s been learned over the years by digging into the skills the pros feel they must own.

[Briar Ellison]

First of all, you sound like a cartoon villain or like a reddit moderator. If this is what you write fiction like then I'm suprised your publishers said yes. Also, I don't think you understand. This is a site for sharing writing for the love of it, not the inbox of an editor. If I wanted crass advice, I would go to a professional and not some self righteous a*s hole on the internet. Have a good day, conversation done.

[Davidgeo]

I feel I should mention that Jay is self published, he pays his own money to tell people he's been "published". He's not a "professional" writer as he desperately tries to imply, he's an old retired dude role playin. And he's paying out of his own pocket to do this making it so much more pathetic and faux. Sometimes he calls it "self released work" but it's all the same pay-to-publish slop. He has no credibility to be talking down to people like this, it's all just bully bullshit and he's been using AI to generate his bullshit reviews lately to top it all off. His only goal is to talk down to people. My guess is he got picked on way too much in school. Bully's tend to be victims of bullying themselves. Regardless, JayG is a piece of s**t and an embarrassment to the human species in general.

[JayG]

• I feel I should mention that Jay is self published,

The child lies, of course. The books that were originally issued by publisher have that noted on the title page, of course.

Samantha and the Bear: Neighborhood Press, 2001
Survival: Polygraph magazine 2009
Training Mission Polygraph 2010
Sweeper: Polygraph 2020
Wizards: Double Dragon 2014
Foreign Embassy: Double Dragon, 2014
As Falls an Angel: Double Dragon,

But of course the kid already knew that, and it eats at him that everything he's ever done, I did first...and better.

[JayG]

• First of all, you sound like a cartoon villain or like a reddit moderator.

Feel free to prove me wrong. Since you don't need any of the skills of the profession it should be a snap to sell your work. After all I have, and you know so much more than I do.

I'll wait. 😁

[Davidgeo]

You just embarrass yourself with this s**t Jay. Give it up man. You're not a real writer, you're just a try hard. And you bring this s**t on yourself so I don't really feel bad. You are even more of a narcissist than I am, which is, not an easy feat. Not a good thing either. I truly mean it when I say you should seek therapy. Get a little DBT in you. Even at your age, it can help.

[Briar Ellison]

Jay, you are a childish b*****d. It ain't worth the great fight, David. Both of you, take it out of this review section. I refuse to be a baby sitter for this squabble. Good day gentlemen.

[Davidgeo]

That's fair enough. I'm not being altruistic or anything, this guy doesn't even review poetry or interact with me in anyway... but I've seen his progression over the years, he's just a bully. I'm not a fan of his type, it fundamentally disgusts me. You're right though, this is nonsense. gfy Jay. Peace!!

[Briar Ellison]

We are done. Move on.