Why I Like to Write, Part II
I've had a fairly craptastic week, though mostly little things or things that I hope will be little things when I look back on them even though they don't feel like it right now.
Anyway, I've been reading the latest issue of Asimov's and something in it made me think of a story I wrote a couple of years ago, which I've always been unsatisfied with--for one thing it isn't SF, which I've always thought it should be and for another it has this horrifying billion pages in the middle where some woman explains everything. But there are also parts of it I really like and I've always wished I could turn it into a good story.
So, tonight I'm reading it again and--bang!--I finally get it. I see what the speculative element is and it not only makes the story work but resonates with the character relationships that are already there and are the main thing I really like about this story (yes, SarahP and Lisa, you will be thrilled to know that it's a relationship story :-) Now I just have to figure out how to get it on the page.
And this, figuring this out, has made me feel better than anything else this week :-)
The beginning:
We found the corpse in the car on Christmas morning. I'd been called out of bed by the patrol officers forty-five minutes earlier.
Stephanie wasn't happy. "John, it's our first Christmas," she said.
"I told you I was on call." I hauled on a pair of half-ironed khakis, a polo shirt and a sport coat.
"I know, but," she drew in a deep breath, managing to look damn sexy for six o'clock on a winter morning. "It’s our first Christmas."
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
But when I reached the scene I knew immediately that this was going to be anything but simple.
"I know that car," I said as I crossed the street from where I'd parked.
"Yeah," Benning grinned at me. "I thought you would."
"Shit."
"You want to talk to her," he asked, "or should I?"
Five minutes later I was standing on the porch of my old house. Carol, my ex-wife, stood in the doorway wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was wearing blue jeans, old sneakers and a faded red t-shirt. "It's not mine," she said as if this sort of thing happened to her every day. "Why would I leave a body in my car?"