I think for me the thing that showed me how to a deeper level of fictional storytelling was when I first watched Gone Girl. Since then I've read the book, and it's fantastic, but I think David Fincher's filmography has influenced and refined my writing the most by far. To my fascination with his style, he has one that is very cold, clear, and to the point but has an unsettling underlayer. He has a great way of hiding information from the viewer that they can see fits in with the parts before the big reveals upon more viewings. I find this to be a much more intriguing way to tell a story rather than have numerous segments of mainly forgetful exposition, which is why I try to incorporate it in my writing as best I can.

The dream showed me things that can’t be conceptualized in the real world. Creatures died all around me; moreover, plants decayed to form what looked like piles of human bodies with their remnants. In the dream, I couldn’t move. My still body was left to stare at what was going on while my eyes wept. On the other hand, my ears were listening to the voices in the sky shouting Guilty!

“I recommend you drink less, Mr. Harmon,” says the therapist.

“Not a bad idea,” I retort.

Walking out, I ask myself why I even talk to him twice a week. If I wanted to stop drinking, I’d go to an AA meeting.

I love my daughter to death, but does her school have to let them out minutes after my therapist meetings? She gets in the car and asks how my day went. After I finish my drink, I reply “good; how about your day sweetie?”

“It was awesome! I can’t wait to tell mommy.”

“I’m sure she’ll love to hear about it too.”

BOOM!

The car gets hit from my side by a pickup truck sending us flying. We roll once, or twice? Only thing I know now is I should have never drank and drove with my baby girl in the car. Now we’re tipped over with my door at the ground and the passenger’s toward the sky. I try to get up to help my sweet girl, but my legs won’t move. I’m left to see her dangle from her seatbelt. Smart girl, unlike her daddy.

This is what I get for hiding it from my wife who, if I’m honest, is too good for me. Now our daughter is unconscious or worse because of me. I guess I deserve this. Call it fate, free will or whatever philosophical bull-crap you want to try to feed me; the fact is this is all on me, and I can’t change it.