Free Plotting to Win by Tara Chevrestt

self-defense.
    And again, why the hell did he care? He felt like a blow landed in his solar plexus as he admitted to himself what he hadn’t wanted to think about: he was seriously starting to like Felicity James.
    Uncomfortable with this train of thought, he scooted away from the object of his attraction.
    Finally, Carmen broke the awkward silence. “Well, Dez, you going to put dibs on Arnold’s writer’s cave, or are you going to stick with your crapper?”
    “How do you feel about being eliminated today?”
    The redhead shook his head. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the floor instead of the camera. “I feel pretty disappointed. I feel like I didn’t even have a chance to show what I can do. We’re not tattoo artists. We shouldn’t have to be versatile. You choose something you want, you write it, and if you’re lucky, someone buys it.” He shrugged, glanced up finally, his lips downturned. “People don’t come to us saying, ‘write me this’.”
    Silence greeted him. He blinked rapidly. “I’m going to keep writing though. Someday, you’ll see a book out there with my name on it.”
    “A head-hop is a sudden point of view switch.”
    “What?” Felicity glanced up from the book she was reading — one of Nicole Roberts’s. She’d actually packed it, having no foresight whatsoever that the woman she’d long admired was going to be judging her.
    Victor sat on the edge of her bed, turning his body just enough to face her where she was propped against the headboard. “Like, if you are in Mookie’s point of view and you’re telling us how Mookie feels … that Mookie desires Dookie with a fierce passion he’s never felt before and then you suddenly switch over and tell us what Dookie is feeling … you’re switching POV. It can be jarring to a reader. Some publishers allow it. Some don’t. It’s something to watch for in your genre of writing.” He watched her intently as though waiting for her response.
    Her book discarded in her lap, Felicity didn’t know what to say. She was unnerved by his sudden kindness and also by the fact he was on her bed, next to her, and he looked good enough to … no, no.
    He blinked at her and apparently assumed she didn’t comprehend, because he continued, “Mookie and Dookie are … are eating sandwiches. Mookie is thinking his salami tastes too peppery and doesn’t Dookie look funny with her hair all messed up? And then suddenly Dookie is thinking Mookie looks like he’s tasted something bad. Basically, you have to choose one point of view, Mookie’s or Dookie’s, and stick with it. Say you choose Mookie. If Mookie can’t see it, hear it, taste it, feel it, touch it, he can’t tell us about it.”
    Throughout his explanation, his hands moved animatedly, pantomiming different things: eating a sandwich, having messy hair, the act of hearing, but Felicity couldn’t get past one thing.
    “Where the hell do you come up with your character names?” She chortled with laughter. Her insides hurt she laughed so hard, and her spirits lifted. Tears ran down her face. He looked bewildered momentarily and soon joined in, his dimples flashing.
    “I mean, those names are sooo unromantic. I have no words,” she finally gasped out when she got control of her wits.
    “Well, I don’t know. I’m a guy.” He spread his hands out, palms up.
    Felicity turned serious, thinking about what he’d said. “So, the five senses? Like, if I’m narrating a scene and you don’t convey something, I can’t know what you’re thinking, unless you say it aloud or something in your body language tells me. I have to hear it or see it myself to tell the reader about it.”
    “Exactly.” And suddenly, before she could react, he reached out and tenderly touched her cheek, brushing away an escaped tear.
    Felicity held her breath. His touched burned a trail on her face. She fought the urge to close her eyes and just savor it, this second of … of … whatever was between her and