A taste of something new

So I have been toying with this one for about six months.  Most stories rattle around in my brain for a year or more before I put anything more down that a scribble of an idea.  Of course for any idea its like joining a new community.  I have to get to know the people first.  See how they interact.  Learn the lay of the land before any glimmer of plot can hope to come to life on the page.  So here is a first scene.  Please if there is anyone out there reading.  Let me know what you think.  I'm not to grammatical/technical errors yet but always appreciate a correct spelling or note on missing punctuation.  -Thanks

ROSE BERG

The rain came down sideways, turning streaming streaks of white in the headlamps.  The sky was an unrelenting black.  Harold had just finished a second shift at the mill and his chin bobbed dangerously down to his chest.  It was only his knowledge of every curve and rut that kept him from running into the ancient trees that lined either side of the road like sentinels standing shoulder to shoulder.  His eyes drooped shut.  It was the sudden pull on the wheel that woke him with a start.  He was heeding straight for a Douglas fir.  Harold turned the wheel hard right and he heard the popped of the tire as it hopped back on to the road.  Suddenly he was sliding.  He had over compensated.  Pulling the wheel hard the other direction help him steer clear of the ditch and the rear axle started to come round.  He pumped the brakes to turning the wheel left then right to control the spin.  All of the sudden she was standing there in the middle of the road, her eyes wide with terror like the deer he had hit last winter on this very same road.

Harold forgot all he knew about controlling a spin and instinctively slammed on the brakes.  The back wheels dropped off of the side of road and the tail end of his truck came to rest against a tree.  Harold swung open his door and half fell out of his truck.  He glanced at his back wheels.  One was still on the road but the other hung precariously in the air.  The tree was the thing that kept him from dropping off the road completely.  There was a slim chance he would be able to get it free.  Then remembering the vision of the girl he climbed out of the ditch to see whether she was real or his dream. 

She was real, standing at the edge of the headlights shivering.  He hadn’t hit her.  He took a deep breath only to expel it again as he reached the road and really looked at her.  She was soaking wet and shivering. For an instant he thought she was naked.  He stammered and blushed.  Then he went to his passenger side door and grabbed the wool blanket Evelyn had left behind on the seat. She was white as a sheet and the thin white garment she was wearing left little to the imagination.  His dropping jaw stirred her senses somewhat.  The blanket was forgotten as she reached across her body, covering herself in a pose like the stereoscope picture his wife had of the woman coming out of the clamshell. Her brown hair clung to her face in thick ropes that stretched past her shoulders. His breath caught in his chest and he choked as a bit of salvia went down the wrong set of pipes.  She reached for the blanket he was too stunned to offer her. 

She wrapped it tightly around her shoulders.  With the downpour they were caught in, it was soaked almost as soon as she wrapped up in it but her modesty recalled his senses somewhat.  He felt his face go red and he was too warm.  The damn prohibitionists had them jumping at any stray thought.  As if a man was responsible for a stray dog that took a dump in his neighbors yard just because he saw it pass by.  He straightened the blanket of over her shoulders and made a feeble gesture to hold it shut over her legs that were still exposed.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you.  I almost didn’t see you there.  What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

The water ran down her face as she looked up to him utterly bewildered.

“Did you have an accident, honey?”  He asked looking around for her car, anything but look at her. He was probably old enough to be her father, or a very older brother.  Somehow that did not help.

The road was empty.  She continued to blink at him. 

“Where’s your car?”  Harold scratched his head as he led her to the passenger seat of his truck.  “Did you fall overboard?” It happened sometimes.  In the summer it was not uncommon for a small yacht to come into the harbor and sail up river.  Most of those boats had a skipper but every once and a while some ignoramus would think he could pilot his own ship and get caught too far up river when the tide was heading out. On a few rare occasions boats had been known to run aground.

The engine of his truck sputtered and choked.  The headlight dimmed and went out.  Harold groaned.  “Just sit there and think about it while I try to get this old heap going.  Then we will try to get you someplace warm.”

Harold felt around behind her seat until he found the crank and moved around to the front of the truck.  He fumbled around for the crankshaft but could not get the crank in position.  It slipped and slammed into his knuckles.  His knuckle was instantly in his mouth.  His hand went numb, then hot and just before started to throb.  He was wide wake now. 

“Slide over to the drivers side honey.”  He shouted over the rain, gesturing with his head as he nursed his bruised hand.  If felt like he broke something.  Not that Evelyn would let it slow him down any.  He squinted into the cab wondering if the girl had heard him.  “I need you to pop it in gear as soon as I get clear.  We see if that can jump us out of the ditch.”

For once he was glad his truck was as old as it was.  He bought it from the army surplus and it had four-wheel drive.  He had a better shot at getting it out of the ditch than the newer model he and Evelyn had been looking at to replace it.  Of course that was before the crash and they had money to spare.  Now he worked nights to cover their expenses and keep the hotel open and their staff consisted of himself and Evelyn.

Harold felt around until he was sure he had the crank in the right spot.  He gave it several cranks before the engine roared to life and he jumped out of the way.  Nothing happened.  The engine coughed and sputtered.  Harold walked to the side of the vehicle.  The girl was still in the passenger seat looking terrified.

“Don’t you know how to drive honey?”  He grunted in frustration as she shook her head.  He wondered if she really was scared of if she was foreign.  She certainly didn’t look like she belonged here in the woods, falling off a boat or otherwise.  He jumped up next to her and pushed her across the bench to the driver’s seat.  He gave her a quick lesson in how to get the engine in gear and give a little gas.
            “You got it?”

She nodded her head vigorously.  Having a task seemed to calm her a bit.

 “Is there anyone else with you?”  He asked.  She did not appear to be hurt in away, just cold and scared.  “You’re safe now but you have to tell me if there was anyone else with you when you ran aground.  I need to find them.”

She swallowed hard and shook her head.  Her body began to shake more violently.  Harold pulled the blanket tight over her shoulders. 

 “I guess I better just take you home with me.”

It was only a few minutes to Newport and home was just beyond that. The girl’s eyes widened.

Harold laughed heartily, his voice reverberating off the interior of the truck.  He had no illusions about his looks.  He was about as plain and ordinary as any man could get.  His days of chasing young girls had passed long ago, a fact for which he was uniquely grateful.  “No.  No, it’s nothing like that, as if I would.  Evelyn would kill be for sure.  Just remember to do what I told you and we’ll be out of here in a jiff.”

She nodded and Harold clucked between his teeth.  After a few more attempts they were out of the ditch and on their way home. It was an hour drive to the hospital but the hotel that he and Evelyn ran was only twenty minutes away.  This was going to take some explaining. Evelyn wouldn’t like it but he could reason with her that she wouldn’t she have been angrier if he had left the girl?  Either way, Harold had a feeling he would be sleeping on the small couch at the foot of their bed.  His back pinched sympathetically at the thought. 

He hoped he hadn’t broken any of the bottles of whiskey in the back.  Every one of them was already spoken for.  This was his civic run.  He had just enough to bribe the sheriff and his deputies to keep out of his business.  Then there were the three they would keep hidden under the front counter for any liberally minded guests.  Their ability to pour a something stronger than a soda was the only thing keeping their little hotel in business these days.  Losing any of them would certain of defeat the purpose of the bribe.

Writer's Block vs. Farmville.

In the paper this week there was an article devoted to explaining the popularity of facebook games such as Farmville and Mafia Wars.  I am guilty as charged and with the slow death of newspapers across the country, I am probably in the minority of those users who would have read the article.  As a writer I have used various distractions to temper the enemy of all prose know as writer's block.

In the early days, when the perfect pen and the perfectly ratty notebook were the tools of my trade, I used a deck of cards.  I would play solitaire while considering all possibilities of how to begin or jump start a stalled tale.  As my tools advanced, and I began to use a pc, my deck of cards made way for tetras.  Tetras was self defeating as the games need for spacial thinking required too much of my conscious mind and I only became more blocked.  From their I discovered the wonderful games of solitaire and mine sweep.  The beauty of these gems was that in the early days most employers did not know to remove this function on the computer.  I played this in the background of phone calls and between emails.

Those addictions followed me home and became a very effective distraction from any editing or writing I tried to do at home.  Then my sister introduced me to facebook.  It was such a lovely way to procrastinate and feel connected at the same time.  I refused invitation after invitation and many gifts from both Farmville and Mafia wars.  Then late one sleepless night, curiosity won out.  I accepted the invitation to become someone's neighbor.  Suddenly I had a green pasture and four different crops I could plant with a simply click of the mouse.  It wasn't until a month later that a farmville devotee showed me a few simple strategies  to make my farm "pay."

My list of neighbors grew and their ideas for the ideal farm were many and varied.  I realized that during my days of scheduled editing and writing, that it was easy enough by out a few minutes to harvest, plow and plant new crops.  Suddenly I was spending as much time tending my virtual farm as I was writing.  During the editing sessions it was easy to watch the clock and toggle from my chapter to my farm.

The addiction was worse than solitaire, spider solitaire and mine sweep combined.  I could create designs in my fields.  I could earn enough to by a tool shed, a barn and even a house.  I obsessed about reaching higher levels, getting there faster than my neighbor and playing catch up to players who had been playing a lot longer than I have.

As for the writing?  Well I am happy to report that I managed to get the editing done.  Although starting something new was much harder.  I had to go to coffee shops with my laptop to get any real work done. The connection speed on the 5 year old machine is deplorable and my animals could not move their heads and the plowing was terrible.  Friends started to block me because they had seen enough of homeless pink cows and moving on up posts.

So I confess to being a full on addict.  I'd love to talk more but I have some black berries to harvest.

Textnovel

I am currently posting two stories on Textnovel

Follow them by name:

The Raven and the Wolf ---

    Loyalty has its price and Engle will discover where his truly lie.  He makes a pack with a street waif and is tricked into taking him on as an apprentice and squire.  It might be the best mistake he ever made.  While Engle's past keeps them on the run, it is the mystery surrounding the child's true identity that proves fatal.

For Sarah --

    A novella loosely inspired by the early life of my Grandfather in Norway.  The names have changed

Textnovel

Textnovel

Simply put

I read this quote on a steeping tea bag this morning and I cannot get it out of my head for it's simple truth.

"As we grow old, the beauty steals inward."-  Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have forgotten much of my Emerson but this to me is like line of music.  It is one of those things I wish I had written.
 

Time to remember why

So as I venture into this new frontier of being an indy author, it is easy to lose sight of the reason I write.  There is a revolution happening in how people select and read books.  It is forcing big publishers to reconsider what they publish.  A conservative approach may well be the most dangerous thing they can do.   Nevertheless, they are printing fewer books and looking for brands they can build.  It makes it more difficult for an unknown to break into this world, hence the attraction of becoming an indy author.

There are many of us out there, peddling our wares for free hoping to gain notice.  We save our pennies to hire independent editors or risk typo's by taking the plunge without one.  It is possible to sell a book on the amazon market place and other etailers without a distributor.  It is a positive to have control over your work but a negative to think that anyone can do it or that it is easy.

I keep posting on Textnovel I see all levels of skill. I see budding young talent reaching out and making a community.  I see people who write because they have a computer or phone and therefore equate it to skill.  There are also consummate fan fiction writers who know how to turn out mainstream commercial plot lines.  And lastly I see a trend of extremely talented authors eager just to get their ideas out there.

The point is, electronic publishing is like the ultimate democracy.  It is exciting to see what new voices will arise out of all this-and not just from the plethora of fan fiction sites, but real talent that might otherwise never be seen or heard.

Out of it all I want to always remember why it is I write.  I write for the love of words, for that feeling of being swept away to another world and presenting that character that makes us step outside of ourselves. I write for the same reason I read.  It is an exploration, an experiment and a means to comprehend the world we live in.