The First Chapter

How many of you are writing a novel? Let's see a raise of hands? Ah, good; plenty. A lot of people I've spoken with want to write a novel or have started one, but that's about the extent of it. Don't feel bad if that's you; I can't say I'm much better. I dart back and forth between different projects but rarely finish anything. It's a habit I'm looking to break. I write for a living as both a journalist and a copywriter, but it's just not the same. Seeing your name in print before the masses just isn't as satisfying when it's on an article about municipal sewers. At least for me.

For way too long a time I've had one particular novel hanging around my neck. It's hard to get too far with any other significant writing projects when I haven't finished the one that's bounced around in my brain for so long, changing form ever so often but never getting born. It's not the classic burdensome albatross; it's more like a bejeweled albatross. I love the story and want to tell it. I don't know if others will like it, but I'm entertained and intrigued by the tale, so out it must come. And I believe I'm a good writer, not a great writer, although I do have those moments where it really clicks. I hope you'll see some of those.

When you tell someone you're writing a book, the person will invariably ask what it's about. I don't like talking about an unfinished story, mainly because I fear it'll sound stupid and I'll feel ashamed to continue with it without major changes. I'd rather finish the first draft, then go back and fix it after it's critiqued. Kind of goes against the point of this blog, doesn't it, where my early drafts are exposed for comment and criticism? I'm willing to deal with that, because the reason I'm doing this is hopefully to give my creative process another dimension by just putting some of my writing out there instead of keeping it locked up on my laptop. I also find that, at times when I might lag, having eyes on what I'm doing lights a bit of a fire under my posterior.

So, what's the book about, right? I've always been told that the best books can have their plot summed up in one sentence. While I can see the rationale in that, I have a hard time adequately summing up my book in that fashion. There's a convergence of a lot of ideas that I think work well together and that I hope will work in the finished manuscript. The short line is that it's a "time travel murder mystery." Sci-Fi is my main squeeze and what I'm most interested in writing about, but I prefer to take elements of that genre and meld them into modern times. H. G. Wells is a favorite author of mine for doing just that; introducing fantastic elements into a familiar setting (of his time) and including a fair dose of rip-snorting action/adventure. The difference between his era and now is that it's hard to find new scientific ideas that really excite people. They're there, but popular fiction is a large and well-explored place. The kind of stuff that excites me are the mysteries lying under the surface of life that we don't always think about, and the heart-thumping thrill of going on new adventures. Yeah, so maybe I want to write Spielberg movies.

I spent many hours in the library as a kid looking at books on UFOs and the Loch Ness Monster, and I still do that online. I love the thought that you can be driving home from work one evening, the same tedious drive you make every weeknight, with that U2 CD playing for the third time in a row 'cos you couldn't be bothered to change it, and your headlights catch a glimpse of some bipedal creature unlike one you've even seen standing on the side of the road. Your brain jams for a split second and you double-take back, but whatever you saw is gone. In those couple of seconds, the routine, colorless world you've melted into has been shaken about, the mystery revived. Sounds like fiction, but the imagination is a fantastic place when given some exercise. So, "time travel murder mystery" is just a quick blurb for what I see as a fun, very quirky piece of fiction that focuses on damaged characters you can (hopefully) relate to, immersed in the pains and sheer disappointments that can come with life, and becoming part of a fantastic circumstance that none saw coming. It's not meant to be great literature; it's hoped by me to be an adventure story with intriguing character development, it's own voice, and hopefully be something not immediately disposable.

I don't plan to reveal everything here, because I don't want to just post the whole book online. While that might be a more helpful process, I'm not comfortable putting an entire unfinished manuscript on the Web. What I plan to do is post excerpts of passages that I think came off well and that give a taste of what I'm doing. After all, some mystery is good, right? ;-) I plan to post not just passages from the book, but a potpourri of other scribblings of mine.

I have a couple ideas for titles for the book and one I'm mostly certain on, but here, for now, it'll be know simply as E4. What I'm posting here today is part of the book's first chapter. There might be a prologue that comes before it, but I haven't leaned towards doing that yet. Anyway, this is where we (as of now) first meet Mark Vox, the protagonist. His last name is a little ostentatious, but I like the way it sounds, and I like that it fits him being the voice of the book and later a voice in a more heroic way. I might change his surname, but I'm rather used to it. He's a minor league baseball player who's not all that satisfied with his life, especially the mess he's been avoiding back in his home town. The ghosts won't leave him alone.

E4 Chapter 1 excerpt

She was bathed in sunbeams and Mark couldn't make out her features. It didn't matter. She was radiant as always.

He was lying in that field of unnamed and exotic flowers, the one he often dropped softly into in his dreams. The air's warmth plastered him back into the short grass, the blades massaging his tanned muscles.

Mark was naked from the waist up and his skin rippled when she laid a thin hand upon his chest from above. Mark inhaled a breath and pulled her down. She fell onto him with a laugh.

Even with her face in front of him, she was still a sunshine blur. Mark reached for her chin and felt it slim and warm against his hand. He bent up to meet her lips and she obliged. There was no sensation, though, as if he had just been shot through with Novocain. The sun's hot glow began to subside into numbness and Mark fought to block out the thoughts that had reared up like a furor as he held onto what he wanted.

Mark knew the scenario wasn't real; not in the way he wished. The colors and sensations were much too vivid to exist. He recognized that he was back in his bed in his North Carolina apartment. Mark was never suckered into his dreams. His consciousness always held anchor in reality; his sleeping mind no longer possessed the ability to sweep him away.

This dream, though, the one in which he saw her, was different than any of his other flat fantasies. Mark knew he wasn't really in that endless field with her under a sky tinged purple. The girl he saw on top of him, her brown air hanging down on his cheeks; she could not cross that barrier in his mind. He was not able to believe that her physical presence was real. Her voice, however, transcended his reason. Mark couldn't deny how full her voice was, how soothing it felt, or how he was unable to control what she was saying with his imagination.

"I wish you could stay," she said.

"I was thinking the same thing," Mark admitted, relaxing under her weight in the grass. "This field... endlessly," he muttered, hugging her head to his chest. He still could not make out her features but her presence was enough.

"But you can’t," she whispered with regret in her voice.

"And why not?" he asked, half-grinning. "I've got at least three more hours before the alarm goes off."

Through the shadow that covered her, he could feel her maintain her seriousness. "You have to go help him," she said.

"Help who?" Mark already sensed her response but wished to avoid it.

"Jeff," she said, the word echoing through her cheeks to his bare chest.

Mark paused and sighed. "I know. I haven’t seen him in a long time. It's... difficult."

"You have to," she commanded, in that way she had of being domineering but endearing all the same.

"What's wrong?" Mark asked, pushing aside any hesitation out of concern.

"He's in trouble. He's in a bad place," she cryptically stated. "But more than that, you have to help him move on."

"I'm not sure that's possible," Mark said, feeling his bottom eyelids puff out. "I would know."

She moved up a bit, pressing her small, firm breasts into his chest, and once again hung over his face, her dark hair obscuring what he could make out of her features.

"I know you can save him," she said confidently. "Do it for me."

"It's not just him I want to save, Samantha," Mark said, his voice choking up as painful memories gripped him.

She ran her fingers along his cheek. "I wish that were possible."

Mark leaned his head up, defiantly looking into what he imagined he could see of her eyes. "Who says it isn't?"

Her expression, he could feel, was a mixture of pride and sympathy. She kissed him again and it actually began to feel real this time. Then, the phone rang.

I hope that's a good beginning. I'll be back with more soon.