Received: June 1, 2010
Date Reviewed:  June 28, 2010

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE
Peace in the Storm Publishing, June, 2010
232 pages, paperback, $15.00
ISBN: 0981963188
Genre: Contemporary Fiction

BUY IT – http://www.amazon.com/Caught-Middle-Peace-Publishing-Presents/dp/0981963188/

 Rating:   4 stars

Moore Proves that Three Really Is a Crowd

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE definitely opens with an intriguing prologue that forces a reader to continue.

Karen is a divorced mother of two, who has somehow found quaint happiness in the solitude of her single life. Finding a life partner seems far from her reality until she meets James, a once honorable father and husband, recently tossed aside by his wife, Toni.

Toni, who suffers from mental ailments of her own, soon decides that she has filed for a divorce, thrown her husband out, and kept him from the daughter he so desperately loves by mistake. When she finds out that her husband could possibly be seeing someone else, Toni looses it.  Karen and James soon find themselves caught in the middle of a chaotic situation that could cost them their lives.

In CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE, Jacqueline D. Moore paints a wonderfully amazing picture of the modern-day perils of dating. In this well-plotted rendition of a fatal attraction, a roller-coaster of emotions is released as readers experience a love affair gone badly.  As Moore loops in and out of Karen, James’, and Toni’s perspectives, an authentic bond to each voice and individual struggle is created. Readers will definitely want to hang in there for the outcome, which Moore doesn’t budge on until the very end!

Reviewed by LaToya S. Watkins
for Write On With Watkins

Author’s Website: http://www.jacquelinedmoore.com/

LaToya S. Watkins lives in Plano, Texas where she works as a freelance writer and editor for various publications. She spends her spare time reading and is also the author of two novels.

A novel that I am working on is the ammunition in my pistol this evening. I find myself in the midst of a fiction workshop this season. And I must admit that I love nothing more than to have my fellow writers take my work and crush it to pieces, offering suggestions and criticism that can only make my work (and my perception of my creations) better.

So last week, I received word that my characters are beautifully written. I have presented the group with an array of them, all so diverse in being that it is baffling and appalling, simultaneously. I fought a smile as they praised my work, keeping in mind that the knife enters slowly. Prepare for its entry, I told myself.

Entry of the knife took place, but was a lot less brutal than I thought it would be.

“I love your writing. I’d follow it anywhere. You characterize magnificently, but I need something to hang on to.”

 I nodded my head up and down. I knew exactly what she meant, but I had become lost in a maze of character building and I didn’t know how to find my way to conflict. I had hoped that they wouldn’t notice that there wasn’t a point, but readers are intelligent. You have to give them something to follow.

With that said, character is important, but it takes much more than that. As I journey through the next section of my story for workshop, I’ll keep these words in the back of my head, I’ll follow you to a place called “Somewhere.”

The artist in me is inspired. I am going to try my hand at my first post modern piece.

Me: I saw a dog die in the street today.

You: Were you there?

Me: There was a small smart car driving—really weaving between the lines.

You: Was he wasted?

Me: I think I’ll have some ice cream now.

You: What about the dog?

Me: Huh?

You: The dog you saw hit by the smart car.

Me: Oh, the dog wasn’t hit by a smart car.

Me: I think I want caramel on my scoop.

You: Can you please get back to the dog?

Me: Well, a bicycle almost ran right into the smart car.

You: Yeah?

Me: Yeah as a question is strange… don’t you think?

You: Can you just finish the story about the dog?

Me: Well… Gee… I really don’t want to talk about dogs today.

I don’t know what I just did or if I did anything. Stories are different. They aren’t all birthed the same way. Each should appear distinct. There is no “normal” story.

So today, as I headed to my car with a colleague, after a long and drawn out meeting about a lecture next week (that I am dreading by the way), I thought of how the cold made my face and ears feel like they were on fire. I imagined that instant that I was in a bright hell and broke out into a light jog. And then I remembered that I was walking across a college campus with a human, not in hell with Satan. I realized that I had created a setting and was inside it. I laughed and attempted to explain my actions to the woman, and even though she smiled and nodded, the odd look in her eyes caused me to ask myself, “Will she ever ask me to share my views on artificial intelligence or medical technology, and the humanities with her students?”  She had been so excited about my ideas and theories before I broke out in that jog. We had planned the same office hours this semester, and discussed our beliefs in science, race, and education. We had even expressed how grad school pushes one as close to insanity as he/she can possibly get. And there I stood, right on the edge.

“This is me,” she said as she approached her economically friendly car.

“Oh,” I responded. “See you next week?”

“Yep,” she said, unlocking the door. As I continued to walk deeper into the scorching cold, she called out to me, “LaToya!”

“Huh,” I turned, almost like I’d been expecting it. “You haven’t written, I mean really written today, have you?”

There must have been a huge question mark hovering over my head, because she went on. “As much as you love it—I mean you talk about it a lot! It shows when you haven’t.  I know we got all this coming at us next week,” she said, pointing back toward the buildings that had been holding us captive for the last few hours.

Then she held up her key and pointed it toward me. “But make time for what you love. Make time for writing.”

I thought about it as I drove home. I have to write every day. My husband and I had a debate last night about the society in which we live, and I was on the brink of screaming in frustration at the imperfections of humanity. And he looked at me with calm and amazing eyes and said, “You wanna live in a perfect world.” There was disbelief and disappointment in his eyes as he continued. “So much until you are disgusted with the one you live in.” I thought about his statement as I headed home today. I thought about the whole debate. I didn’t write yesterday. I didn’t believe a word of my own debate last night, even as I was debating. I knew I didn’t, but I needed to create, just as I created the hell outside my school campus today.

When I write, I am close to God. Sometimes I cry, because the connection is so strong.  I read a line, and I praise him for it. I know I can’t create like that. I read a paragraph and I scream. I’ll go insane without my fifteen-hundred word-per day minimum. Writing is something HE has given me, and the more I do it… the better I become. I don’t know how exactly, but from now on, I’ll be making time for writing.

            “Well… fine,” I finally said. I will complete the story I started yesterday.

            Wait, she said excitedly. Just be quiet and watch me.

            I sat there and thought about her words for a second. I should have been being quiet. My children were in the last day of their vacation, and my office is right next to their rooms. I didn’t want to wake them, or I wouldn’t get to write about anything.

            “Okay,” I whispered to her. “Let’s go do the dishes.”

             I’ll bet you think I’m crazy, but I’m not. If you are creating a world, and people (characters) in that world, you must become a part of it. You must submerse yourself into the world of your characters and follow them. I call it trancing out. When it is time for me to trance out, God allows me favor in my universe.

            “I am Marie,” My character told me.

             Marie stood and watched as I made a breakfast of ricotta cheese and pecan pancakes and cheesy egg quiche for my children. As I put the completed dishes in the oven to stay warm, I turned to her.

The backside of my hand is darker than the dark lines on a pecan. I wear my father’s skin, but my younger brother, Francois, wore my mother’s. They are both dead. I watched them die from the ceiling of Baba and Mum’s house. I did not hear her say it, but she did.

 My husband called early today and asked me to go to the bank. I told him that the children were still sleeping, but I’d go as soon as they woke up. After I hung up the phone, I turned to Marie.

I hear the telephone ringing from the bathroom. I know it is Jon. He calls six times each day, thinking that the telephone will save me from the horrors that my eyes have allowed to forever embed my mind. I did not hear her say it, but she did.

 As the day trailed on, I followed her, she followed me, and we bonded quietly. At noon I returned to my office and plopped down in front of my computer. Marie was not on the other side of the desk, but I picked up my notebook and jotted down all that I had learned from her that day.

Remember when I said the universe works with me? My daughters emerged from their bedroom two hours later (2 p.m.), rubbing sleep from their eyes like it was daybreak. I went to check and see if my son was still alive two hours after that (4 p.m.). By then, my story was a story.

“Suicide” has been on my desktop for three months. Up until today, the story only had one line:

 ”I tried to slit my wrists today,” I say into the mirror.

The new title: “More Lipstick, Please” is just at three thousand words. I cried when I read about Marie’s pain. I remembered her face in the chair across from me and I was glad I took her out of the backseat today. This post is just to piggyback on my post from yesterday. Get to know your character, maybe fall in love, hate, or learn to respect your character. You will thank yourself for it, as it’s all a part of character development.

So here’s the deal… With a short story, there isn’t time to toy with more than one voice. If this were a novella or a full novel, I could alternate chapters in different voices. I could use my new character in 1st person and a narrator. Or I could write in the third person (limited) voices of two different, very distinctive voices.  So, I decided to test the waters with my first paragraph. Here was my first attempt:

3rd person limited

She was a virgin, and they all knew it. She had never been here before.  Her boyfriend, Ryan beamed with pride. He was glad that he was the one breaking her cherry. She could tell by the smile on his face. She didn’t care though, she was more worried about slipping on the slick concrete in her high-heels. She was wearing a skirt, so if she fell, they would all she the red thong that she was wearing for her and Ryan’s private time later. She was almost angry that he hadn’t recommended a simple sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. 

1st person

I was a virgin to this place, and I think they all knew it. Ryan beamed with pride. He was glad he was the one breaking my cherry. I could tell by the smile on his face.  I didn’t care though, I was more worried about how over-dressed I was for my first visit to what looked like a concrete hell. I was almost a little angry that he hadn’t recommended a simple sweatshirt and jeans. The crowd parted like I was Moses going through the red sea as I entered the tall iron gates of what looked like a well lit, midnight party.

“You alright?” he asked, looping his arm around my waist. And even though I was a little upset with him for not telling me about how casual the place was, I nodded my head up and down like a little girl.

“Uh huh.”

In my opinion, it flowed easier in 1st person. I was able to go on further than a single paragraph in the 2 minutes I gave myself. I think you feel the voice that you are supposed to be using. You usally grasp it for sure after a couple of chapters, but if you know your character(s), you’ll get it after a couple of pages, maybe even paragraphs.

Can you choose the wrong voice?

I don’t think so, but the voice you choose may/may not get you to the best possible version of your story.

Truth is, sometimes the voices of our characters blend together, which can lead the reader to a long road of confusion. This is why creating character distinction is very important. A writer told me a few months ago that she takes the character that she is working on everywhere with her, even to 7Eleven. “I want to see what she acts like in the car and when we get out,” she told me. I liked her explanation of learning your character. Even if you don’t tell your reader everything about your character, make sure you know the details of who your character is. Choosing a voice will be easy if you do. More than that, conveying who that character is to your readers will be easier if you know what he/she wants.

The writer sighed out loud and propped his elbow on the desk in front of him, before gently resting his chin on his fist. “Well my dear,” he began. “I know you have heard throughout the course of your education and career as a writer, to write only what you know.” I nodded my head up and down. He was right. He always seemed to be. Maybe it was the wisdom that came with the white patches of hair that covered his bronze face and parts of his head, or maybe it was the forty books behind him that were all parts of his contribution to literature. But he always seemed to be right.

“What else would I write about?” I asked. This time I was curious. I no longer wanted to test him. He would pass. He always did.

“Know about what you write,” he said.

That was the first “real” lesson I learned about writing. The old writer in him taught the new writer in me a very valuable lesson. Writing only about what you know can place limits and boundaries on your work.

If I write a story about a thirty-something wife and mother of three, I am creating my story. There is not much about me that I would like to tell, unless God forces me to do so. This would limit my output. I would only tell things that place my character in a positive light, plus, I am really not that interesting.  But if I write a story about a sixty-year-old lady, who rents out rooms in her over-sized ranch house to prostitutes, I tell a story that I have had to live through research and hunting. I have made myself wiser, because I have explored a part of life that was once unknown to me. If I remove myself from my work, it becomes bigger than me–better than me. If I write about what I know, I am doing very little to reach the end of my work. But if I know about what I write, I am working long before I actually start my work.

I understand what the old writer meant by saying know about what I write. This idea makes me an explorer and I like that. This was the first lesson that I learned as writer and I wanted to share it with you.

Beginning today, I resolve to be what God has called me to be. A writer of change. Welcome to my journey.