I spent an hour or two yesterday writing a motorcycle chase. Our hero — Skip — has just been lured into a seedy part of town in hopes of hiring a coyote (or “Coyotaje”) to help sneak him and his cohort Monica back across the border into the United States. The meeting was a setup. Trapped between the drug runners (who want to kill him) and the Coyotajes (who want to kill him), Skip hops on one of the coyote’s motorcycles, hotwires it, and makes a break for it.

When I’m writing an action scene, the action unfolds in my imagination in real time. It’s almost like watching a movie, and trying to type everything as it happens. The motorcycles zoom one way. Skip does a wheelie. One motorcycle spins out on the dirt and crashes. Another jumps a ditch and takes a shortcut. Look out, Skip!

I think this will be a fun chapter to read, which makes me worry that the other chapters won’t be fun to read. I know not every chapter in a book is exciting in the same way that not every scene in a movie isn’t exciting. Rocky isn’t just one 90 minute boxing match, and Star Wars is more than just one hour-and-a-half long explosion. It’s the drama that sets up these scenes, the humor, the jokes, and the relationships that make us care about the people stuck in these make believe worlds. A motorcycle chase is pointless unless you’ve previously explained to readers why they should care about the outcome. In my scene, as Skip is fleeing from the bad guys on a stolen motorcycle, Monica is heading toward them in a taxi. Look out, Monica!

I really hope I’m doing all of this right. Hell, I hope I’m doing any of it right.