ROBIN!

I didn't know you were writer...I've known you for awhile now!

Please hurry up...I'd LOVE to read some of your writings

I was an english major in my freshman and sophmore year in college. Best six years of my life

SIX years?...LOL

I look forward to reading your work...I bet it's interesting

I have part of a chapter started but the characters (as is my wont) are just kinda positioned like cardboard cutouts until I do some rewriting and develop their personalitys

my thing, my motto, or my favorite thing is

ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances

and you have to make each person identify with the reader even the bad guys so its hard to develop each one idiosyncracies and personalities

and then its like these people live in my head and I already know em haha

here is a sample

keeping in mind that this is just thoughts dashed on paper basically just setting the background and needs to be expanded into five or six pages to further develop the personalitys and setting. The story itself is actually about the people's fathers and this is just a way to sneak up on that




Even as the sun was barely rising the west Texas wind was howling. There were just enough high clouds to catch the early rays of the sun for a brilliant rose and gold display. Tumbleweeds rolled down the streets to catch on fences, telephone poles, cars, anything stationary became a temporary anchor trapping the trembling tumbleweeds for a few moments before an errant gust would send them rolling off to some more permanent destination. Fences piled up with tumbleweeds until the weight of them brought the fence down. The wind blew sharp quartz sand grains in a never ending sheet. Etching the windshields of vehicles left out in the gale. After an hour or two in the maelstrom the paint on even the newest of the fancy Dodge pickup was faded to a dull sheen.
Clayton Kroft sat in his old Ford pickup watching the wind gusts and the junk carried along by the wind. Pages and pages of paper, probably from some poor school kid’s backpack, and trash bags, and of course more tumbleweeds. He sat behind the steering wheel cradling a steaming cup of coffee in both hands, savoring the warmth. Waiting in the parking lot of his business, Kroft Electric, for his hands to finally show up for the morning he sat with the heater running nursing his coffee. The radio was playing Night Ranger’s Sister Christian and he waited for the end of the song. The howling wind still had an arctic bite to it and Clay was delaying getting out into it as long as possible
His truck was definitely not one of those fancy new Dodge things that tried to look like a big diesel semi. His truck was an old 70’s model Ford. Three or four different colors of paint depending on whether you were looking at the red door he got off a salvage truck in Odessa, or the gray bed he pulled off the truck he introduced to a telephone pole driving through the sandhills one whiskey soaked night. But the heater worked and the stereo worked. Normally he would have been sitting astride his 62 panhead but early March was still just a bit too chilly for riding a scooter.
Monday morning hardly anyone of his guys ever showed up on time. They were all young, in their twenties, and young in the oilfield means hard partying. And attitude. All of his guys had a serious eff you attitude. But he liked that in his boys.
Clay had started his oilfield electric service company ten years ago, buying out and taking over the business from old man Watson when he retired from the business. He had three electricians with helpers and a three man line crew. He wasn’t ever going to get rich doing this. But at least it was comfortable. And it kept him from thinking so much about how he missed Patsy. Six years since she was gone and he still woke up every morning crushed when he rolled over and realized she wasn’t there. Every single morning for the past six years he had drank his first cup of the day with tears in his eyes missing his wife. Patsy and his Aunt Sal had been driving back from Odessa one evening and tangled with a semi trailer rig with a sleeping driver at the wheel. They both were killed instantly so at least there was no suffering. But the shock of it, so sudden, that was what killed Clay to this day. He never got to say goodbye to his wife. He just looked up one day and she was gone. Leaving him with a teenage daughter to raise on his own. Clay figured he probably screwed up her life with his clumsy attempts to be a dad but Karen loved him and never passed up the chance to show it to him
Uncle Bill had been overseas on one of his government jobs and couldn’t get there until two days later. He took it even worse than Clay. Big, strong, tough guy, Uncle Bill broke down blubbering and at the funeral and had to be helped out. Only Clay’s dad, Brewster County Sherriff Henry Kroft, was big enough with the strength to keep Uncle Bill to his feet. Big Bill Woodman was six foot five and probably two hundred and fifty pounds. Nobody messed with Bill Woodman. He was not only big but thirty years as a Navy Seal had taught him to be fast, efficient and deadly. Even at sixty years old, with the possible exception of Henry Kroft, there weren’t many people who could stand up to him.
But not that day. That day Big Bill Woodman was a sobbing wreck who had lost the only love, the only soft spot he had ever known. And Clayton Kroft knew just how he felt. Sitting in the church pew, lost and empty, leaning on his cousin Deena’s shoulder, tears soaking the shoulder of her dress. Deena was Bill and Sal’s daughter and was as close to Clay as if she were his own sister. He just buried face in her dark curled hair and bawled like a baby.
Deena turned out to be the strongest of them all. After the funeral she took charge and got Bill and Clay fed and, after sitting on the back porch and slamming Jack Daniels like drowning men, she got them both to bed. The next morning she was up waiting for them, ready with coffee and vicodin for the hangovers and cooking breakfast for them. The next day she and Uncle Bill were gone. Deena back to Carlsbad where she had a large animal vet clinic. And Uncle Bill flying out of Midland for parts unknown.
After that Clay only saw Uncle Bill a couple times. He threw himself into his work and Clay had only seen him a couple times in the past six years. Uncle Bill had retired from the Navy as a Master Chief ten years earlier and after that he had gone to work for the Defense Department as some sort of consultant. Clay never really knew what except that it was dangerous, classified, and kept him out of the country for months, hell, for years at a time.
Bill Woodman wasn’t really Clay’s uncle by blood. But he and Clay’s dad, Henry, had grown up together. Best friends since the third grade. Hell, their fathers had even been best friends too, up to the day they died exactly one month apart.

WOW...WOW...this is a WONDERFUL piece of writing!....WOW!

I love this!....you are very talented! very professional!

You REALLY need to consider publishing your stories...WOW!

What other great writing talents are you hiding?

ahahaha

I see about ten things I'm gonna change already

I can cook too

hell, can he ever!

his chili rellenos are seriously to die for.



(and all i have to do is throw some clothes in some water on occasion, add a little detergent, take out, toss in dryer, fold and put away.)

i came out WAY ahead.

Dude!! That SERIOUSLY makes for good reading.

Nice work!!

Papersmile...well done on the " wheedling " to get him writing again.

This is just excellent -- you've provided, in just a few paragraphs, a really solid concept of Clay. I feel like I know this guy -- more importantly, I feel like I've known him for a long time. Already. That's not an easy thing to convey in such a brief sample. If this story is about the fathers, maybe you could do a followup about Clay's life!

And maybe it's because I personally tend to be character-driven than plot-driven (this can cause its own complications!), but when I read a character who grabs me, as Clay has, I want to know more about his life, about what happens to him, where he goes, what he sees, what he does.

"Trembling tumbleweeds" is a particularly nice construction....!

Not to be nitpicky, but, in the last sentence of the first paragraph, I'm thinking "pickup" should be plural.

Please post more!

wow thanks ya'll

you're right lex the singular pickup thing was a typo

I'll try to add some to it this evening

I kinda have an idea on the (main) conflict to work towards

there are two styles of writing. some people plan every detail, like blue printing a house

and some people allow it to grow and develop and dont know where its going till it gets there. thats me

that's how i feel too. there were a couple of characters that he left on the las vegas strip and i'm disappointed i never got to find out what happened to them. if he leaves clay up in the air, i'll sulk.

I totally resemble that remark, Quiet.

I started off with just the very beginning of what I have been working on. Took me a while to figure out where it could go. Once I got a general idea, I started writing and the story just went where it wanted to.

Fortunately, it's decided to stay within the parameters of that " general idea ". lol

Where it goes, it goes.

now if I can just figure out how to get some zombies in there

HAH!!! Zombies are cool!!

Just do us all a favor and pass on putting vampires in it...lmao

okay I added some

this could be kinda cool. Ya'll get to witness the evolution and get to give advice and critique as it unfolds

only problem is that mingle squashes the print together and removes the paragraph indents and removes the white space

I think the white space is just as important to the flow as the print

so it's a bit hard to read

please point out any typos to me. I dont type very well so I get a LOT of typos and miss quite a few in the re reading

any way here is the rest of chapter one...

hahahaha I forgot that mingle would filter some of the language




continued from last post


Bill Woodman wasn’t really Clay’s uncle by blood. But he and Clay’s dad, Henry, had grown up together. Best friends since the third grade. Hell, their fathers had even been best friends too, up to the day they died exactly one month apart.

Clay’s reverie was interrupted as the first of his electricians pulled into the parking lot. It was Juan Diaz, his very best hand, driving the brand new service truck that Clay had bought. Short and wide with a pachuko mustache and soul patch on his chin, wearing a “La Raza” ballcap and leather jacket, Juan looked like the scary Mexican biker that you would hate to meet in a dark alley. He would have been the manager of Kroft Electric if Clay only had the budget to pay him more. As it was, Juan still half ran the company for him. An exceptionally talented electrician despite his biker image, Juan had earned an Associates degree in electronics from the community college in Odessa. He enjoyed acting the role of the dangerous Mexican biker but in reality was one of the most intelligent and educated people Clay had ever met. He always had complete confidence in Juan’s ability to diagnose and repair the most difficult of trouble calls.
Clay saw that Dimitry was in the passenger seat of Juan’s service truck. His personal truck must have broken down again. Dimitry was a good kid, always cheerful and enthusiastically helpful. And he was engaged to Clay’s daughter Karen. That was really the only reason Clay had hired him to be Juan’s helper. Dimitry knew nothing about electricity. Or really even the first thing about the oilfield. He tried, he tried really hard, but Dimitry was, well, there was no way to say it nice. Dimitry was a fook up. Sometimes Clay had to struggle to keep the kid from seeing him laugh at him. But he was engaged to Karen, and she obviously was head over heels in love with the kid. Clay was forever after him to get a haircut. Not that he had anything against long hair. Clay’s own salt and pepper hair was braided into a ponytail that reached to the hollow between his shoulder blades. But Dimitry let his hair grow so that most of the time his bangs obscured his vision. He just looked, well, sloppy. And his appearance just added to the impression of being a fook up.
As Juan and Dimitry got out of the service truck Clay repressed a twinge of irritation. It was still pretty cold outside and the howling wind had a sharp arctic bite to it. He wasn’t really quite ready to get out. He grunted in amusement at himself and zipped his tan Carhart work jacket up as tight to his throat as he could. He opened the door of his truck and the wind immediately grabbed it and tried to rip it out of his hands spilling the remnants of his coffee in a spray that was instantly dispersed by the wind.
Clay waved to Juan and pulled his bundle of keys to unlock the door to the building. Too many keys to comfortably put in his pocket, Clay attached them all to a carabiner that he clipped to his belt loop. It was a convenient arrangement except that sooner or later the weight of the keys would tear his belt loop and he would have a panicky couple of hours until he found wherever they had dropped. So far he had always managed to find them.
He held the glass door against the ever persistent wind to let Juan through.
Juan just mumbled with a heavy Spanish accent, “Coffee” as he ducked through the door and headed straight for the small spare kitchen cum break room that was really just a foyer for the bathroom.
The two other service trucks with their electricians were pulling into the parking lot as Clay pulled the door tight against the wind. Right behind them were the other two helpers and his three man line crew all in their personal vehicles. Only the electricians were allowed to drive their service trucks home. A perk that Clay hoped would give the others the incentive to study and pass the Journeyman electrician test. It didn’t really work though. Most of the helpers and linemen were content to remain just as they were. And really that was fine with Clay. They were all good, intelligent, and hardworking hands. It was just a balance. A trade off between responsibility and pay and they were satisfied with the level that they were at. All in their twenties, his boys were still at that stage where all they really wanted to do was get fooked up and get laid. Clay knew that when they finally grew up most of them would take more interest in professional development. In the meantime he was content to allow them to be the same wild hard working hard partying kids that he himself was when he was their age
As everyone trooped in, fighting the wind to keep the door from ripping off its hinges, they all shuffled, heads down, straight for the coffee pot. Clay sighed and shook his head and laughed a little inside without showing it. They were all terribly hung over. He reckoned it was going to be a slow start to this Monday.
As they stood in a small semi circle around the coffee pot, feet shuffling and mumbling good mornings to each other, Juan looked around and said, “Where the fook is Dimitry?”
The crew all looked around vaguely and made half audible mumbly noises and shrugged. They were all going to be useless for another hour or so.
Juan walked over and looked out the front door and chuckled, “You’ll have to see this for yourself boss.”
Clay walked over to the door and looked out and couldn’t help snorting. He just shook his head. Dimitry had gotten his jacket sleeve caught in the door when he closed it. And the door was locked so Dimitry was stuck standing by the service truck with the wind buffeting him. He had his head ducked to his chest to avoid the worst of the wind and at the moment they spied him he was in the act of trying to slip his jacket over his head without unbuttoning it.
Juan elbowed Clay in the ribs, pointed and said, “Look there.”
Rolling across the parking lot driven by the wind was one of the biggest tumbleweeds Clay had seen. Probably six feet around and as tall as a man. And it was headed straight for Dimitry, who couldn’t see it coming because his jacket was still half pulled over his head.
Juan was starting to giggle like a little kid and said, “This is going to be good.” Clay tried to contain his laughter as the tumbleweed rolled across the parking lot on a beeline straight at Dimitry. It smacked right into him. It would have knocked him off his feet and carried him away if his sleeve, caught in the pickup door, hadn’t held him up. Clay just shook his head in wonderment. He found himself doing that a lot where Dimitry was concerned.
If you’ve never encountered tumble weeds you probably don’t know that they are prickly. Not really quite thorny but sharp and just prickly. And so dry that the least tension or force causes them to break apart into little sticks and mini tumbleweeds. And each little stick is prickly and sticky and snares itself into any material soft enough for it to get a hold.
As Dimitry stood trapped by the truck door with his jacket still half over his head, he tried kicking the tumbleweed loose but he only succeeded in breaking it into smaller pieces that clung to his jacket and hair. The diminished tumbleweed pieces and clones finally took off to continue their wind born journey to eventually join their brothers on some fence some where.
Clay told Juan, “You better go save your helper before he blows away too”
Juan was giggling as he said, “This kid. If he didn’t have bad luck he wouldn’t have any luck at all. It’s a laugh a minute working with him. A regular three ring circus.”
Clay said, “Well don’t jack with him too much. He is my daughter’s fiancé. I don’t want to scare him off. She would never forgive me”
Juan laughed and said, “Nahh, he’s a good kid. I like him. Just, if there is a wrong place and a wrong time, you can be sure that Dimitry will be there.
He leaned halfway out the door of the shop holding it tight against the wind with one hand as he as he toggled the keychain fob that unlocked the door. Chirp-chirp. Dimitry pulled himself free of the door and ran for the shop pulling his jacket back into place and pulling shreds of tumbleweed out of his hair.
Juan was holding the door for him and laughing “Hey mijo! You plannin’ to come to work sometime today?”
Dimitry swung a punch at Juan’s shoulder as he came through the door but of course Juan ducked under and Dimitry smacked his fist into the aluminum frame of the door. Sucking on his knuckle and shaking his hand he headed for the kitchen and the now empty coffee pot.
“Jeez, any of you guys know how to refill a coffee pot”
The only reply was a bunch of “yeah, yeah, yeah’s” and assorted mumbles.
Clay thought, Christ this whole day might be a waste. These guys must have really gotten messed up last night. How do you get so drunk on a Sunday night? He wondered. There’s no bars open on Sunday night in small town Baptist world. He was mildly irritated with them but said nothing. Once they had some coffee and woke up they really were an excellent crew. Not a slacker or a trouble maker among them. So he cut them a little bit of slack. A really little bit.
As everybody shuffled into the conference room to get their job assignments and trouble tickets, Clay pulled Juan aside,
“You’re going to be helperless today. I need to borrow Dimitry.”
“Ah la verga, you pay me too much to do that kind of work.”
“I know, but you’ll have a light day because of it. Just hand off your trouble calls to the other guys. You can spend the day supervising. I’m having lunch in Alpine today with my dad and I figure it’s time Dimitry got to meet his future grandfather in law. Or really, maybe it’s the other way around”
Juan laughed, “Does he know that he is going to meet the famous Jefe Kroft today?”
Clay winked, “Not yet but he’s fixing to”
As everybody settled in to the battered mismatched folding chairs around the big scarred steel work table that they had moved into the conference room, Clay grinned wickedly at Juan and picked up a big four pound sledge hammer. He casually walked up and smacked the steel table top as hard as he could with the hammer. BAM!
To a man, the whole crew jumped and moaned and grabbed their heads in pain. No mercy for hangovers. Clay accepted it as a part of doing business in the oilfield but he would allow no tolerance for a hangover to impair a man’s ability to work. If you had to work and puke you just did and kept going. It better not slow you down
He looked over the group and said “Ya’ll awake now? Anybody feel like they need a little time for a nap maybe?”
Everyone knew better than to answer that
“Jeez what a motley crew. All right. Let’s sort out assignments.”
He looked over his line crew. “Pete, you and your guys have ten spans of primary and a transformer bank to build over by Coyanosa. Load up your poles and a couple of spools of three and ought ASCR and hardware. I left your transformers by the garage doors. Take the bucket truck. I don’t want anyone trying to climb poles in this wind. Oh. And we’re charging by the hour on this one so don’t get in a hurry. The rest of you guys pick up Juan’s trouble tickets. He’s playing boss man today. I have to be in Alpine for lunch.”
“And Dimitry, you’ll be coming with me”
Dimitry’s eyebrows shot up. His eyes got big and round. He dropped his head in his hand and said, “Oh no. You’re making me meet Sheriff Kroft today? And I’m wearing old greasy, torn, blue jeans? You could have told me so I could dress better.”
Clay replied, “Don’t worry about that. We’ll swing by your place so you can change.”
“Everybody else, let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

I have to get ready and go to dialysis

I'll check back later and see what ya'll think



Oh, I plan to. There are seven or eight stories inherent in all their histories and relationships

Clay is around fourty something, maybe fifty. I still have to make a timeline of everybody's lifes so I can keep it straight

but he has been there and done that too. He and Deena have a lot of history and story too

and dont forget Uncle Bill Woodman. He is a kind of an elderly Jason Bourne. working for the CIA and Defense Department and when you need a highly capable killer and tactical guru, he is the man. or will be haha. I picture him as a little bit slimmer and more fit Wilford Brimley, mustache and all

I'm intriqued and pulled into your story Quietman. Even though I have no background, you've explained clearly the beginnings of each character. Very nice.

well thanks, ya'll are kinda making me blush

so far it's all really just background and setting

I still need to add to the people a bit. mostly what they look like

and add more sensory description

smell, sound, feel. that kinda stuff. This is all very very rough draft stuff. Just getting the ideas down on paper. and LOTS of typos

it's kinda like doing a cover song of your favorite band. You have to play it enough so that you feel the song and then after you have come to know it intimately you can adapt it and make it your song

that's kinda the way I look at the initial draft and the subsequent rewrites. so it'll change, perhaps drastically with each rewrite

but THAT will go easier cause I have ya'll to look over my shoulder and edit and proofread almost in real time. cause I get so caught up in the mental vision of the stoy I miss a lot of the mechanical stuff. Its kind of an interestinig experiment because not many writers have so many people looking over their shoulder offering advice and catching discrepancies as they go

Seeing your beginning gives me the incentive to just dive into my own. Having not written a book, only short stories and poems, I always wonder exactly how to start even though I pretty much know the entire story in my head.

I'll just have to put pen to paper and hope for the best.