On Writing and Storytelling, or: I Wrote My First Fight Scene!

Afternoon, Saturday, September 7, 2024, Madison New Hampshire

Hi, Dear Readers.

Despite a later than desired start to my novel writing workday yesterday afternoon, I managed to write the fourth and final vignette in Chapter 19, Scene Five. It took me several hours to craft it, but because I decided to go for realism and not make it exaggerated or a Hollywood-type scene in which the participants exchange witty quips and perform all kinds of acrobatics while trying to beat each other into a pulp, my first-ever fight scene (in a work meant to be read by the public, anyway) is short, gritty, and (according to actor-director Juan Carlos Hernandez) believable.

Here’s an excerpt, in case you’re interested!

En Route to the Metropolis Arms, Saturday, March 18, 2000, 11:30 PM EST

An hour has elapsed since I left Maddie’s Queens apartment, no thanks to the Big Apple’s traffic. Still exhilarated from our kissing session (but nothing more!) with the charming concert pianist, I now find myself heading back to the Metropolis Arms – and home. I bemoan the lateness of the hour, realizing I’ll have to finish my grading duties on Sunday.

I stroll through the bustling maze of city blocks, where an eclectic mix of businesses and storefronts beckon in midtown Manhattan. There’s a cash-checking place called Amscot, a Chinese laundry, and Carousel, a quaint mom-and-pop shop offering everything from greeting cards to model kits to Playboy magazines. Internet cafés juxtapose with corporate giants like Starbucks, while a soon-to-be-defunct Blockbuster video struggles in silence. Fajitas de Guadalupe tantalizes with the aroma of Mexican delicacies amidst this vibrant array. Some establishments remain alive and thriving, their neon signs aglow, while others lie dormant, dimmed, and shuttered. As I meander home, my path alternates between zones of brightness and darkness; light dances with shadow in a rhythm punctuated by broken streetlights awaiting the city’s touch.

The night is cold, with temperatures hovering around 32°F, and a biting wind cuts through my Columbia University sweatshirt, padded jacket, gloves, scarf, and Star Wars baseball cap. Despite the chill, I’m wrapped up in thoughts about grading papers and prepping for exams, mingled with the lingering sweetness of Maddie’s unforgettable kisses.

I stride through one of those murky patches when I suddenly hear a scratchy whisper behind me. “Hey, buddy. Got a light for a smoke?”

“No, sorry, man. Don’t smoke.”

Out of the shadows steps a figure, bundled up like many New Yorkers against the cold, features obscured by the darkness. I discern it’s a man, roughly five foot nine, donning what seems to be an old Army BDU jacket from the late ’80s sans name tape, jeans, and robust work boots. The man’s footsteps reverberate on the pavement. I feel uneasy, but not fully alert. I casually suggest that he try Carousel, which I noted was still open; surely, a place selling cigarettes, Playboys, and Trojans must sell matches too?

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” the man retorts sarcastically, no longer whispering. The voice is familiar—and much to my horror, unmistakably belongs to Miguel Hernandez.