There’s nothing like that first blank screen, when you write “Chapter One” at the top of the page and stop to relish the moment. Perched on the precipice, so to speak, of total freedom. It’s all up to you—now let go and fly!!
But… But… Where to start? What’s going on? Who’s first to speak? How will the first book be unobtrusively integrated into backstory of the second one? When will each reoccurring character make his/her first appearance? What’s the general plot of this mystery? Who’s the bad guy? How will the reader be able to clearly imagine the setting? And don’t forget to ask: What are they wearing?
Writing gives me a fabulous high without alcohol, drugs, or even leaving home. I don’t know why it normally sits so low on my to-do list, thinking it’s not as important as, say, doing the dishes or cleaning out the cat box… OMG! THE CAT BOX!
Okay, whew! I’m back, the cats are much happier, and to the reader, no time was lost. All good reasons why writing, and books, are such fabulous inventions.
For those who’ve been wondering if I followed through on my last entry, I really did start writing Book Two of the Sylvia Avery Mystery Series on Sunday. And continued on Monday. And today, Tuesday, I could hardly stay asleep this morning, anxious to be back at the keyboard. The magic has begun!
So if you’ve read this far, you deserve at least a sneak peak at Chapter One. The first draft begins like this:
The first thing Deputy Frederick Morgan bought with his windfall inheritance was a midnight blue, 883 Harley sportster. Unfortunately, he didn’t yet have a valid motorcycle license. But I do. My name is Sylvia Lee Avery, recently retired CPS case worker. I’m the one who put the first hundred miles on his bike, riding it home from the dealership.
“Geez, Syl,” said Freddy after I parked the motorcycle safely in his driveway and pulled the matching midnight blue helmet off. “Were you purposely trying to lose me on the way home?”
I laughed. “What’s the matter, Freddy? Couldn’t that RX-8 of yours keep up?”
Freddy glowered. “I just thought you’d be taking it a little easier on those curves.” He suddenly grinned. “Not that I mind watching your curves, of course.”
I handed him the helmet. “There you go, hot shot. Don’t let the sheriff catch you tootling around town until you get your endorsement.”
“Tootling?” asked Freddy, clasping his free hand to his heart. “Seriously?”
“Would you like me to define the word for you?”
“I know perfectly well what it means, Syl. I’m just hurt that you think I’d ride my brand new machine like some old fogey.”
I was my turn to grin. “Glad to hear it, Freddy. Now go get your endorsement and prove it to me.” I turned and headed for my own car.
“Technicality,” said Freddy. “I had a motorcycle license until I turned 40, then I foolishly let it go, thinking I’d never be able to afford another bike.”
“Until you were 40?” I echoed. “What was that—six months ago?”
Freddy ignored my remark. Our 15-year age difference was something he claimed never bothered him, but it often bothered me.
….AND AWAY WE GO!