Musings

Imperfect Hope, chapter 1 first draft is done. For now. It felt like a milestone to put it behind me, though. Today, I'll start drafting another section of the novel, and I'll probably allow that inner critic loose for a little while on what I've done so far with chapter one. It's screaming to be let loose.

One issue that I've already identified is a bit of confusion as to the viewpoint character. Scene one was easy enough, but scene's 2 and 3 are a bit mixed up, I mostly kept to protagonist #1's viewpoint, but when I reread it lately, I noticed that occasionally I included observations that crept in from protagonist #2. Unless P#1 can read minds, there's no place for swaps like that. So inconsistancies like that will be a priority during rewrites, as well as a focus for ongoing first draft work.

Chapter 2 will start with a different viewpoint again, then switch back to P#1 and P#2. Practice Practice Practice.....

Speaking of practice. My writing exercise from last week. An exercise in Description and Setting. Maybe a bit of mood.....

I leaned against the palm tree and swirled the drink in my hand. The ice sounded dull in the cheap plastic cup, a clatter rather than the melodic clink that sounded when you swirled your scotch in a crystalline glass. At least the scotch was good, even if it wasn't your traditional oceanside tropical drink. The bartender had been scandalized when I insisted a plastic drink umbrella be placed in the scotch. In the last minutes of light from the setting sun, the drink caught the rays, liquid gold and brown and red, all blended together in an autumn colored abstract within the throwaway cup. I smiled, it was a beautiful evening on the gulf-coast beach.

A few dozen yards down the beach, a woman was putting the finishing touches on a sand sculpture. She had been scrambling about in the sand since long before I'd arrived, taking time out only to stand back and study her masterwork. Flurries of frantic digging would follow, dignity forgotten as she crawled around the sculpture, packing and scraping. Children nearby pointed and laughed. From my vantage point, I couldn't tell what she had formed from the sand, but one of the boys suddenly shouted, "An Alligator! Mom, it's an alligator." Further up the beach, one of the watching adults waved in acknowledgement. Finally, the artist stood back, satisfied. One gritty hand swept a loose strand of hair away from her face. I turned my attention back to my task.

Offshore, a yacht bobbed silently at anchor, the crew had taken in sail and dropped anchor shortly after I had taken up my watch over the beach. Nobody moved on deck, though a light showed in the cabin windows, a shadow crossed occasionally. Sea Gulls wheeled over the stern of the yacht, I could hear their high pitched squalling in between the low rumbles of the waves on the beach as the gulls fought over some scraps that had been tossed overboard earlier. I imagined the galley cook had tossed them overboard while readying the dinner, perhaps the catch of the day. Perhaps my contact was on board.

I hadn't been told how my contact was to arrive, perhaps he was waiting for darkness. I listened to the surf sounds more intently, wondering. Was he to swim? Or would he arrive by inflatable zodiac raft. Was he even on the boat? All I had was the note, sent by email the night before. "Arrive Ungers Beach, sunset. Info on Solid Shot. Put an umbrella in your drink, I'll ask if it is 'The Balvenie'. Anyone but you and I'll disappear forever." No name, all attempts to trace the origin of the message ended in failure. Oh. Solid Shot is the codename for the project I'm overseeing for the Navy. So secret, even congress doesn't know what it's about.

So..... Writing fragment turned into practice, turned into..... What.... A story? Who knows.....

TTFN,
Jim