I Am Ready For My Close Up... Cameras and We Are Rolling

 It is not often that I get up at 5:00 a.m. with calculations and a storyline in my head, so I have become so invested in these 2 books I am writing. They have very different characters, but they have something in common. There is something also about the way this story is forming in my head. I see it like a movie. Each scene is intricate and detailed, fueled by emotion, stamina, and anger. Each character has a mission and a motive... or I should say ulterior motives! Escape and detach, and not be accountable for what each has created in their life!

With Hank, the male character in "When He Had Her," a long line of women follows his ghost. Each betrayed in one way or the other for him to get ahead. Marked with Greed and the I'll show you attitude, proving he is someone. Only to get something from one woman while getting under another. Temporary fixes to mend a fragile ego. A dangerous ego ... violent if he does not get his way. Adult temper tantrums are in full display, bad moods and cheap choices made by bad decisions and beer. (his patterns are so predictable)

Jake, on the other hand, "Seaside Shore," his anger just riddles his body. It's a part of his make-up. He can't even explain to himself why he is so angry. The adhd routine of trying to stay in control and remain in charge... over all things in his life. Somewhere in his DNA a forgotten boy and a parent who couldn't be bothered. Altering the course of a young teen, becoming so detached from family and familiar, he resents anything that looks like home... or stable. His outlook is self-made through hard trials from challenges and strength. Tenacity that only makes him angrier... looking at the world like everyone is incompetent except him. "If they would do it right to begin with, I would not have to clean up their mess". There is no room for inadequacy, and there is no room for anyone to get in his head. Don't think don't feel just do the damn job! Burn the hours on the clock... and then escape. It's a repetitive madness he can not escape from, no matter how hard he tries. The mechanism is broken and coping isn't enough anymore.

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Seaside Shore

Jess had gotten into his head. The thought of her consumed his days—and it angered him. Rigid and stubborn, set in his ways, this storm of a man could barely stand his day-to-day life, but it was what he chose over her. Routine. Habit. A road paved for misery. There was no place to escape because the coping mechanisms he once leaned on were no longer working. The man was breaking. The crevices were too deep now, and even his bones cried for ease.

When nothing has ever changed—not even a slight variance of a better life—it was only natural to sabotage and retreat. That was his way. Always had been. What was he running from? Why did this pattern always rise up like the tide, swallowing him whole? Military think: don’t feel. Act—do not participate. Detach from anything or anyone that gets too close. All operations would be at risk. Except… this wasn’t an operation. This was Jess. And for whatever crazy reason, he resented that she’d gotten too close. She cared. Cared too damn much. Like his mother had. Genuine. Soft. Present. It was driving him insane.

Why couldn’t he get her out of his head? Why now? Why her? Change? For what? The sea salt and waves made him who he was—a man drenched in labor, built from storms. Stoic without fail, cloaked in a mask that detoured any detour toward happiness. And yet, here he was. Cracking. Fracturing. Battling ghosts in silence. WTH was wrong with him?

The rig groaned like an old beast beneath his boots, metal on metal as it swayed with the weight of wind and wave. Jake barked orders like a war general—short, sharp, without patience. “Rig floor crew, rotate the tongs. Manny, keep your damn eyes on the pressure gauges. We’re not blowing the stack because someone’s hungover again.” He scanned the sky out past the cranes and derricks, checking the storm front creeping in over the water. Ten degrees more south and they'd be pulling back all ops. He hated the dance—always weather watching, always calculating risk—but it was part of the routine that kept everyone breathing. He did it with precision because distraction killed. “Drill pipe’s prepped. Make sure the stabilizer’s not loose this time,” he growled, jaw clenched as he snatched the clipboard from the rusted panel, scanning numbers that kept the rig from becoming a tomb.

Inside the control shack, the gauges blinked with mockery—pressure, flow rates, mud density. He knew them better than his own pulse. The work was in his blood, but it didn't feel like control anymore. It felt like punishment. Every wrench turn, every crank of the chain tongs was a war against the memory of soft laughter and green eyes. He pushed harder. On the rig floor, sweat mixed with grit and salt as he hoisted the Kelly bar into place. His back screamed with effort, but pain was better than thought. “Tool pusher wants another thirty feet before sundown—move like you mean it!” he barked, even as the roar of hydraulics screamed around them. Every task, every check, every line tied down, was a battle to drown out Jess. He wasn't just fighting the ocean—he was fighting her damn ghost in his mind, haunting the space between every weld and wire. The rig was his church and his penance, and today, neither brought peace.

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Something like that...Stay tuned

Getting lost in my head is where you will find me these days. Each day, these characters become easier to write about. Instructing, I have taught my painting students, you need to place yourself in your painting in order to understand the flow and the movement of paint. To be inside both books and see firsthand what has made the characters tick and move... second skin. Both books are a part of my soul and how you, the reader, connects... well, it is what resonates within.

 And...I get to take you along to see it in action! and we are rolling! 

Kitryn Marie

#writer #Iholdthepen #madeformovies