My writing could be worse...and has been.

I was going through some old cd's to figure out what was on them and found one that contained my very very first attempt at noveling.

I didn't have a title, I just labeled the file "Rhonda", since that was my main characters name.

This story was the very beginning of Blood Freckles...several versions back, probably written in 2003.

Its...interesting.

Ok, I have to give myself credit for trying, and for the fact that it led me to think about it and re-write it. I was 6 months pregnant with my 2nd child, writing on my lunch hour when I worked for a chiropractor. I worked really hard on it! I even tried to edit it.

After re-reading my 2008 version, though, it really isn't terrible. The old version is almost autobiographical. Like the story happened to me in particular. My life, only with the storyline of having witnessed the suicide in my backyard (which didn't happen to me). This was good in some ways, as there was a lot more description and development of the character (since I happen to know ME). But, the story was thin.

There was no supernatural aspects to the story and the outcome was completely improbable.

Here's an excerpt from the beginning:

"It was turning cooler finally and I sat in the line of trees behind my house, out of sight from my mom in the kitchen window. This was my place- where I went to visit the places in my mind where I couldn't go in the closed spaces of my house or school. Here, I could speak aloud to those who knew me best- to the people and things that really interested me more than my flesh and blood friends. And I dreamed of love. My first ideas about romantic things were sculpted in that time of life. I would spy on my neighbor- climbing a tree to see him doing what I was doing- wandering, dreaming. He was older, and I didn't know how much. He had red hair and he wore funny clothes and I dreamed that he would meet me in the trees and we would walk and dream together and maybe he would kiss me. Until one day I spied him and he wasn't alone, but with another boy- messy haired and shorter, but the same age I guessed. They rode their bikes in the field and threw rocks and did all sorts of other boy things that were a mystery to me. But I realized I no longer loved my neighbor, but his friend. In my daydreams I called him Adam because I liked that name and it seemed to me he looked like an Adam. "

Not too bad. And certainly sounds like the same story.

Heres the opener of the second version:

"I was always a weird kid. The kind people were always worried about, but unsure of how to approach it with the parent. It started when I was young, when I'd shown that it was going to be hard for me to do simple things like get my own shoes on or remember to wear underwear. Then it progressed into the school years, with notes home from teachers about my absent mind and constant doodling. I learned to read, escalating the problem to such a level that book became a privilege that got taken away and movies forced upon me as punishment."

Boy, this is fairly autobiographical as well. This second beginning leads into several pages of boring character development that leads the reader into an awkward first 100 pages. Too much backstory.

At least the first version jumps right in.

The third version was what I already posted here- the bar scene where I try to create some excitement and throw the big surprise in right at the beginning instead of waiting until the end.

Now, as I prepare to take this story...again...in version 4.0, I am looking for where to start. I look back at the books I've read and loved and I'm hoping to find inspiration to jump in again. I'm losing my resolve with it, a bit. And if the next version takes a backseat to another story for a while, as it did before- that could be a good thing. I'll let you know.