Shun the Believer!
What price will you pay in order to belong?
You must choose.
Logan reaches across the table to squeeze your hand as hard as he’s squeezing the Bible clutched to his chest. The noisy campus quad fades into the background. His skin on yours awakens the ache of a hard on.
He whispers, “Dylan, I’m just not ready to reveal us to the world…”
Your heart clenches and you cling to his hand.
Logan continues, “…yet.”
Behind you, Rodd announces to everyone on campus in his contralto lilt, “You cain’t pray the gay away from that one, preacher-man. Dylan’s one of ours. Right, queens?”
A flush burns your face and an ice cube trickles down your spine.
The queens chorus, “You cain’t pray the gay away!” in four-part harmony.
Reluctantly, you slide your hand out of Logan’s sweaty grasp and twist around to glare at Rodd. “What do you want?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Rodd gushes in stage whisper. “What sins are you confessing?” He winks at Logan. “You must introduce us to your sexy priest. I just love to get a man out of his cloth.”
Logan snorts. “As if you’re a real temptation.”
Hiding your inner cringe, you say, “Logan, this is Rodd—”
Rodd lays across the table, brushing your arm aside, to rest his elbows in front of Logan, his chin in his hands. “That’s Rod-duh, sugar, with two Ds.”
The queens chorus the tired joke, “Because he’s hung like he’s got two Ds!”
You groan. Logan’s face is pale and expressionless. He seems to be breathing, so you shove Rodd’s hips through bedazzled, painted-on jeans forcing him to stand. “Go away, Rodd. This has nothing to do with you. We’re just talking ‘bout—”
Rodd flares his nostrils. “You do not get to dismiss me, sir.” He sniffs with a hand wave. “Not if you want to keep your part in my play? Hmm?”
“Oh, come on, Rodd,” you say. “Don’t be that way. I’ll be at rehearsal on time, as always. Who else could you possibly find to sing the bass part for Giuseppe?”
The queens loudly hum a few bars of your biggest number in the musical. “I could do that,” they sing together as if they’d rehearsed the bit.
With a raised eyebrow, Rodd glares at you and then at Logan. “You don’t have any class together, so I have to wonder what the campus gossip rag might make of…”
From the corner of your eye, you see Logan’s head give an involuntary twitch of negation. Both of his hands clutch the Bible to his chest.
Your heart unclenches as you stand to face Rodd. “A gossip betrays a confidence, but a trustworthy person keeps a secret.”
Rodd blinks.
“Proverbs eleven verse thirteen, bitch!” You raise your hands to the sky in benediction.
Whistling his disappointment, Rodd spins and stalks away with the queens in tow.
You sigh.
Logan mutters, “Thank—”
“Fuck you, Logan. Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.”
You sashay away.
Logan weeps.
I must choose.
Logan reached across the table to squeeze my hand as hard as he squeezed the Bible clutched to his chest. Our impromptu lunch of mystery meat hotdogs and greasy onion rings lay forgotten on the table. The noisy campus quad faded into the background. His skin on mine awakened the ache of a hard on.
He whispered, “Dylan, I’m just not ready to reveal us to the world…”
My heart clenched and I clung to his hand. “Why?”
Logan continued, “…yet.”
“How long?” I whispered.
Behind me, Rodd announced to everyone on campus in his contralto lilt, “You cain’t pray the gay away from that one, preacher-man. Dylan’s one of ours.”
His irritating trademark finger snaps startled me.
“Right, queens?”
A flush burned my face and an ice cube trickled down my spine. I tried to stop my shoulders from hunching up around my ears.
The queens chorused, “You cain’t pray the gay away!” in four-part harmony.
Reluctantly, I slid my hand out of Logan’s sweaty grasp and twisted around to glare at Rodd. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Rodd gushed in stage whisper. “What sins are you confessing?” He winked at Logan. “You must introduce us to your sexy priest. I just love to get a man out of his cloth.”
Logan snorted. “As if you’re a real temptation.”
Hiding my inner cringe, I said, “Logan, this is Rodd—”
Rodd laid across the table, brushing my arm aside, to rest his elbows in front of Logan, his chin in his hands. “That’s Rod-duh, sugar, with two Ds.”
The queens chorused the tired joke, “Because he’s hung like he’s got two Ds!”
I groaned. Logan’s face was pale and expressionless. He seemed to be breathing, so I shoved Rodd’s hips through bedazzled, painted-on jeans forcing him to stand. “Go away, Rodd. This has nothing to do with you. We’re just talking ‘bout—”
Rodd flared his nostrils. “You do not get to dismiss me, sir.” He sniffed with a hand wave. “Not if you want to keep your part in my play? Hmm?”
“Oh, come on, Rodd,” I said. “Don’t be that way. I’ll be at rehearsal on time, as always.” I slid into my deep faux Italian accent. “Who else could you possibly find to sing the bass part for Giuseppe?” I gave him my obligatory chef’s kiss salute.
The queens loudly hummed a few bars of my biggest number in the musical. “I could do that,” they sang together as if they’d rehearsed the bit.
I rolled my eyes at them. “One of you is maybe a tenor at best.”
The queens tittered in amusement and took turns batting their fake eyelashes at me and Logan. I sighed, but I did not turn around to look at Logan when he coughed.
With a raised eyebrow, Rodd glared at me and then at Logan. “You don’t have any class together, so I have to wonder what the campus gossip rag might make of…” He waggled his eyebrows at each of us in turn.
I started to twist in my seat. “Logan?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Logan’s head give an involuntary twitch of negation. Both of his hands clutched the Bible to his chest. His knuckles were white in a death grip. My stomach roiled and I gritted my teeth to keep my gorge from rising. I didn’t know whether to face Logan or Rodd. Spewing a half-digested hot dog and onion rings onto either of them would not improve this situation.
Rodd clucked at me, his irritating impatient musical theater director noise. Logan cleared his throat, an annoying tick that he always did before he quoted the Bible in conversation. The blinding sun broke through the clouds. I blinked up at it in surprise.
My heart unclenched as I stood to face Rodd. “A gossip betrays a confidence, but a trustworthy person keeps a secret.”
Rodd blinked. “What the actual—"
“Proverbs eleven verse thirteen, bitch!” I raised my hands to the sky in benediction.
Whistling his disappointment, Rodd spun and stalked away with the queens in tow. They sang in unison what used to be my biggest number. “I have no choices in love. I must always follow my heart…”
I took a deep breath and blew it out.
Logan cleared his throat again. “Thank—”
“Fuck you, Logan. Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.”
I sashayed away.
Logan wept.
He must choose.
Logan reached across the table to squeeze Dylan’s hand as hard as he squeezed the Bible clutched to his chest. Their half-eaten impromptu lunch of mystery meat hotdogs and greasy onion rings lay forgotten on the table. The dim Seattle sun hid behind the clouds. The noisy campus quad faded into the background. Logan’s skin on his awakened the ache of a hard on for Dylan.
Logan whispered, “Dylan, I’m just not ready to reveal us to the world…”
Dylan’s heart clenched and he clung to Logan’s hand. “Why? Is it your—”
Logan continued, “…yet.”
“How long?” Dylan whispered. “Another year?”
A hush fell.
Behind Dylan, Rodd announced to everyone on campus in his contralto lilt, “You cain’t pray the gay away from that one, preacher-man. Dylan’s one of ours.”
His irritating trademark finger snaps startled Dylan. Only years of acting lessons gave him the control to stifle his guilty flinch and the urge to yank his hand away from Logan’s hot grasp. Logan’s fingers squeezed tight.
“Right, queens?” Rodd asked with a theatrical lilt.
A flush burned Dylan’s face and an ice cube trickled down his spine. He tried to stop his shoulders from hunching up around his ears.
The queens chorused, “You cain’t pray the gay away!” in four-part harmony.
Reluctantly, Dylan slid his hand out of Logan’s sweaty grasp and twisted around to glare at Rodd. “Rehearsal’s in an hour. What do you want?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Rodd gushed in stage whisper. “What sins are you confessing?” He winked at Logan. “You must introduce us to your sexy priest. I just love to get a man out of his cloth.”
Dylan scowled at Rodd, who giggled.
Logan snorted. “As if you’re a real temptation.”
Hiding his inner cringe, Dylan said, “Logan, this is Rodd—”
Rodd laid across the table, brushing Dylan’s arm aside, to rest his elbows in front of Logan, his chin in his hands. “That’s Rod-duh, sugar, with two Ds.”
The queens chorused the tired joke, “Because he’s hung like he’s got two Ds!”
Dylan groaned. Logan’s face was pale and expressionless. He seemed to be breathing, so Dylan shoved Rodd’s hips through bedazzled, painted-on jeans forcing him to stand. “Go away, Rodd. This has nothing to do with you. We’re just talking ‘bout—”
Rodd flared his nostrils. “You do not get to dismiss me, sir.” He sniffed with a hand wave. “Not if you want to keep your part in my play? Hmm?”
“Oh, come on, Rodd,” Dylan said. “Don’t be that way. I’ll be at rehearsal on time, as always.” He slid into his deep faux Italian accent. “Who else could you possibly find to sing the bass part for Giuseppe?” He gave Rodd his obligatory chef’s kiss salute.
The queens loudly hummed a few bars of Dylan’s biggest number in the musical. “I could do that,” they sang together as if they’d rehearsed the bit.
Dylan rolled his eyes at them. “One of you is maybe a tenor at best.”
The queens tittered in amusement and took turns batting their fake eyelashes at Dylan and Logan. Dylan sighed but did not turn around to look at Logan when he coughed. If Logan would just get over himself and his self-righteous image…
With a raised eyebrow, Rodd glared at Dylan and then at Logan. “You don’t have any class together, so I have to wonder what the campus gossip rag might make of…” He waggled his eyebrows at each of them in turn.
Dylan started to twist in his seat. “Logan?”
From the corner of his eye, Dylan saw Logan’s head give an involuntary twitch of negation. Both of his hands clutched the Bible to his chest. His knuckles were white in a death grip. Dylan’s stomach roiled and he gritted his teeth to keep his gorge from rising. He didn’t know whether to face Logan or Rodd. Spewing a half-digested hot dog and onion rings onto either of them would not improve this situation.
In that moment, he was back in junior high, trapped in the locker room with three homophobic jocks bent on making Dylan out himself in front every other boy on the team. The intervening decade evaporated like spilled nail polish. Only now, it was Logan’s turn. If Dylan could survived being brutally dragged out of the closet, anyone could.
Rodd clucked at Dylan, his irritating impatient musical theater director noise. Logan cleared his throat, an annoying tick that he always did before he quoted the Bible in conversation. The blinding sun broke through the clouds. Dylan blinked up at it in surprise.
Unseasonable warmth kissed Dylan’s skin. He didn’t have to perpetuate the cycle. But he didn’t have to suffer, either.
Dylan’s heart unclenched as he stood to face Rodd. “A gossip betrays a confidence, but a trustworthy person keeps a secret.”
Rodd blinked, confusion and disgust etched his face. “What the actual—"
“Proverbs eleven verse thirteen, bitch!” Dylan raised his hands to the sky in benediction. He adopted Rodd’s theatrical lilt and twisted it into a drawl. “Praise the lord-duh!”
The queens gaped at Dylan.
A high-pitched female giggle pierced the silence. “Oh-my-gawd.”
Whistling his disappointment, Rodd spun and stalked away with the queens in tow.
The queens sang in a low unison what used to be Dylan’s biggest number. “I have no choices in love. I must always follow my heart…”
Dylan took a deep breath and blew it out. He’d expected it to hurt more. Instead, a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying had been hoisted off his shoulders. He was grateful to Rodd and Logan for reminding him to never hide himself in the dark, not ever again.
“Nobody puts baby in the closet,” he muttered to himself. “Nobody.”
Logan cleared his throat again. “Thank—”
“Fuck you, Logan.” Dylan’s lips twisted but he didn’t bother to turn around. “Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.”
Dylan sashayed away.
Logan wept.
What the hell is this?
In level one of the Story Grid Writer Mentorship, we have a set of seven scene archetypes that we practice in a wide variety of ways. There are many knobs and dials that we twiddle and twirl to develop the vast number of narrative skills required to become capable of writing whatever story calls to you. Mastery of all seven is required to graduate to the next level. Students will write many, many versions and revisions of each of the seven over the course of their level one mentorship.
This is my intentional, public practice of the third scene archetype we start every new student with: The Compromising Position. I’m of the mind that I shouldn’t be asking anyone to do something that I’m not willing to do myself. We begin with second person strict in the present tense on purpose to focus the student on the core conflict: the antagonist catches the protagonist doing something the antagonist disapproves of and wants to force the protagonist to recant while the protagonist wants to maintain their status the group without sacrificing their independence. I think of it as This isn’t what it looks like!
This one is a bit more complex than I start my students with, since it’s a three-character conflict, it includes a composite antagonist (Rodd and the queens), and environmental antagonism (the crowd and the sun). I always start students with just two characters as beginning practice before we complexify. But the Muse wanted this particular construction today.
In this archetypal scene, we rise above the lowest level of the core genre pyramid (Action) and step up into the Status genre in a social conflict. The shame dilemma of this archetype is useful well beyond traditional Status story plots, but we start there because it’s universal and approachable. And every masterwork has an element of social or identity Status story in it somewhere. (Yes, every single one.)
In the mentorship, we build up from there. Each iteration of a scene, especially the revisions, are intentional practice of specific skills. We start with a very short second person strict present tense to focus on the punch/counterpunch of the core conflict. Constraints are both freeing and focusing. We’ve found that if you can’t do it in 500 words, you probably can’t do it in 5,000. As we revise each week, we add complexities and nuance.
The reason that we do not start with third person past tense, despite it being the most common point of view in genre fiction, is that third person lures the writer subliminally toward omniscience. We have found that the awkwardness and unfamiliarity of second person and present tense to be a valuable forcing function. Something about the immediacy and urgency of both enables most students to focus on the core Crisis and its stakes rather than rambling about fun, but ultimately unrelated and irrelevant topics.
The difference between Strict and Limited in point of view can be quite dramatic, especially once you learn how to setup the Crisis stakes without the crutch of internality. No, we never practice Omniscience by design in the Writer Mentorship Program. It’s a very advanced narrative skill to do properly and not common in modern genre fiction anyway. Omniscience is easy to write badly and almost always disruptive to Sam’s experience. The weekly practice drills zero in on all the different narrative muscles and reflexes that need individual, purposeful exercise in each as the constraints shift and the word count relaxes.
And, of course, your feedback is welcome.
Scene Analysis
I offer you three renditions of the same scene with different parameters:
500-word Second Person Strict Present Tense
750-word First Person Strict Past Tense
1,000-word Third Person Limited Past Tense
OOD Rodd and the queens want Dylan to shun Logan the Bible thumper.
OOD Dylan wants to defend himself and encourage Logan to out himself without betraying Logan or the group.
OOD Logan wants to get out of the situation without revealing his attraction to Dylan.
II Logan tells Dylan that he’s not ready to go public with their relationship yet.
PC Rodd rolls up with the queens and makes a scene in the campus quad.
PC Rodd antagonizes Logan with flirtation.
PC Rodd threatens to give Dylan’s part in the musical to someone else.
TP Rodd threatens to tell tales to the campus gossip rag.
CQ Will Dylan betray Logan's secret or reject his membership in the queens?
CX Dylan professes his love for Jesus and begins quoting scripture and speaking in tongues.
RN The queens express supreme disgust and reject Dylan and exit stage left pursued by a bear. Logan tries to thank Dylan who rejects him and exits stage right pursued by self-loathing.
SAM is struggling with group membership that causes them cognitive dissonance between their own independent identity and a need to belong to the group, and needs to give up group membership in order to be true to themself.
Want help with your story?
If the Nine Circles of Revision Hell seem daunting to you, you’re not alone. They can be a slog, even when you’ve done them many times. For a lot of writers, the editing process is the most painful part of publishing. I’m weird. I enjoy it! But I’m aware that not everyone does. If you don’t get off on revisions or if you don’t even know where to start, let me help you.
I’m a Story Grid Certified Editor and founding member of the Story Grid Guild. I’ve been helping my clients with developmental editing of their novels and screenplays as well as chapter-by-chapter scene coaching for their works-in-progress since 2020. I joined the staff of the Story Grid Scene Writing Workshop as a coach in June 2024 and the Story Grid Writer Mentorship cadre as a mentor in January 2025.
I’m available for hire. Book a campfire chat and let’s see if we might be compatible story adventuring companions.