Monday, July 21, 2008

On writing.

I've been thinking about writing a lot lately. That is to say I've been thinking a lot about writing. Aside from the daily posts here, I haven't been doing much writing at all, which kind of bums me out.

Sometimes I like to dig up something I wrote a while back and see how it looks, which, since I'm a little tired today, is what the bulk of this post will be.

It's just the first little bit of a story I started writing for NaNoWriMo back in 2006. I never finished it, so I never came up with a title.

Solomon Cauldar looked at his target and sighed.

Another bank job, he thought, looking skyward at the moon, which, he noticed, was waxing. I live for the day I don't have to waste my time with this crap.

The first couple of times, he used a couple of guys he found to help him, but as time went on, they seemed to be more trouble than they were worth. Besides, he tried to keep in shape; he could manage most of the heavy lifting he needed to do.

He checked his watch: 11:37 p.m. Amazingly, this place didn't have much in the way of security, relying instead on surveillance cameras.


He cracked the knuckles of his long, thin fingers and headed inside. The cameras wouldn't see him, and no one would know that he had been there until the morning.

He headed down the hall, staying in the shadows. Solomon wore black, as he usually did, right down to his black Chuck Taylors. He could stand right behind someone and they'd never even see him there.

Finally, he arrived at the vault. He pulled a piece of Wrigley's Doublemint out of his pocket and started chewing. Then he went to work.

How many times? he wondered. Solomon tried to keep his mind busy to fight off the pangs of guilt that plagued him during lulls in his heists. He liked to tell himself that the crimes he committed were relatively victimless, but he knew there were people out there who needed his treasure as much as he did.

He was just a little more proactive in terms of getting what he needed, that's all.
Back at his car, a green 1971 Plymouth Duster with deeply tinted windows, he loaded his haul into the trunk. He always knew exactly how much to get; no sense letting greed trip him up. That's one of the reasons he'd never been caught.

His take secured, he closed the trunk gently and slid into the driver's seat. Solomon took one last look at his target in the rear-view mirror and released the parking brake, letting the car coast down the hill a bit before starting the engine.

As the engine turned over, the radio crackled to life. Neil Diamond's "Thank the Lord for the Night Time" was playing. Solomon smiled.

"Amen," he said.

The Franklin County Blood Bank, the only two-story building in the small town of Baileyville, grew smaller in Solomon's mirror until it, like him, was out of sight.

There's a lot more, but I'm just curious if this beginning is enough to make people want to continue reading.