Conflict is the Secret to Happy Writing

Water is disappearing. Soon fighting will erupt in the streets over bottles of Ozarka. Ladies will water their gardens, water hose in one hand, Uzi in the other. Men will wash their cars in pairs: One to wash, the other to cover his back. Water is a dangerous business, but I'm a dangerous man. Water is my business. They call me 'Mr. Water!' You can call me Water, James Water. 00-H2O.

My friend and co-worker Viqui Litman told me today that I need to write about the conflict in my subjects because people want to read about that conflict and how it's resolved (or something like that). Viqui is a published novelist (The Ladies Farm, Midnight Peaches, Generations of the Heart), who's promised (I think to get me to stop begging) to put me in her next book.

Viqui and I work for an engineering firm, where I prepare Statements of Qualifications that outline our firm's expertise and approach to resolving cities' engineering problems. We've designed most of the dams and reservoirs in Texas and have had a hand in treating most of the water and wastewater in North Texas. If you're at DFW Airport, you'll see the bridges and stations that we designed for the SkyLink Automated People Mover.

I was putting together a marketing piece today for Viqui that features some of our award-winning projects. My first task was to boil a five-page technical presentation and PowerPoint down to three paragraphs and a photo caption that will be understood and admired by most of the sane world (non-engineers).

AND find the conflict so that those sane people will continue to read how we resolved it.

My first project to feature was the emergency installation of a 140-foot, 60-inch pipeline to channel about 1/2 of the wastewater flow through a treatment plant during its peak flow capacity of 400 million gallons per day. In case you didn't follow me, that's about 200 million gallons of raw sewage. The pipeline had to be installed before a forecasted storm hit and created back-ups and overflows of . . . well, about 200 million gallons of . . . you know.

Here was my first draft:

Chad the wastewater treatment plant operator's arms were steel bands wrapped around the massive pump valve that seemed to fight back with his every turn. He was the last defense against the horrible consequences of not having the 140-foot, 60-inch wastewater pipeline online before the storm. Rain whipped him in the face, and he knew that the sacrifice of his hometown, his darling Juanita -- the only woman he'd ever loved, since first grade -- and his precious 1964 Mustang convertible would be the victims of his weakness. He strained against the valve. A gust of wind caught him like a left hook coming out of nowhere, but he hung on, visions of his woman, his car, his boyhood home covered in 200 million gallons of . . . you know. And then there he was . . . the engineer. He calmly laid down his slide rule and removed his pocket protector. He smoothed the tape that held together his glasses and laughed at the rain because he was wearing his favorite high-water pants. Chad saw him walking confidently through the downpour, not once making eye contact but still walking confidently, and he knew that the gods of engineering had sent their most valiant warrior to save his hometown, his darling Juanita and his precious 1964 Mustang convertible. The engineer unrolled his design plans and shoved them toward the merciless clouds. The rain stopped, as if it knew that it was no match for the wastewater savvy engineer. And all was right with the world.

I'm working on the second draft tomorrow.