When I announced the end of my reporting gig with the Spokesman-Review last December, several people, including some I would have never guessed, suggested I try my hand at writing a book. I laughed it off as a goal too far, and talent too limited.
Then the idea started buzzing around in my head. (Plenty of empty room there) I couldn't let it go. A fictional account of a local natural disaster started to take form in my imagination. I figure using natural surroundings and plausible circumstances, well, at least they were plausible to me, I could do a novel. The nice thing about a fictional work is that the research isn't as hard, since the facts don't have to be facts.
For weeks now, this plot has rattled around in my mind, changing daily. Finally I decided that if I was going to do this, I had better get started. With my 73rd birthday looming in the near future, (March 23)and understanding from successful authors that a book sometimes takes two to three years, that I had better get started, as I might not have that much time to waste.
This project may not be completed, or I might decide it just isn't within my meager talents. Still, an old fart has to do something besides hang out at the local watering holes, watching my liver become toast.
This week-end I sat down and put to paper ... well actually to screen, a first chapter. I now realize why writing takes so long. After reviewing the first start, I realized that I had to go back and re-figure what I was doing. Still, I did start, and now I'm kind of excited about developing the rest of the story. Stay tuned.
Memorial Day Wild Card -- 5.25-27.13
5 hours ago