First Sentence

I knew I had to be standing on the corner of Coliseum and Coldwater waving a “Going Out of Business” sign and that X, the cell-group leader, would drive by, look me in the eye, and send the Intuitor my next assignment.

This is the first sentence of my speedily written novel. I spent some time wrestling over it, knowing how important the first sentence is, not so much for the reader (as I was thinking about this on the walk home) but as for the agent and editor. The reader isn't the gatekeeper to publication, agents and editors are. Without publication who will read it? Yes, I could go down to my local Office Depot and have them run off and bind copies which I could then hand out on the streets but to what avail? Self publishing boosts the ego, I know I self published a chapbook of poetry in my courageous youth (Songs of the Lonely Heart, by Derfla Publishing-- Derfla being Alfred, my middle name, spelled in reverse). Not a copy remains, as far as I know which may be a blessing to the poetry world. For whom is the all important first sentence? The gatekeepers who lay such heavy judgment on the first collection of words, on the first subject and predicate. Such a weight for such a small thing to bear, but bear it it must for such is the world.

Now What?

pOkay, I've got a draft so now what do I do with it? I'm in the process of seeing what has come out of the typewriter, breaking it down to scenes and possible chapters, seeing what should be tossed, and what should remain, and what should be rewritten, etc. I could try to rewrite it in third person, if I was a masochist. Or simply wade on through it, line by line. Surprisingly, some parts of it haven't turned out a complete mess. As I enter rewrite on the computer, I'll post a few bits of it for reaction. I don't know if the narrator is sane or not. Conspiracy theories are so much fun, ask any Birther.

"The End"

Nine- 35 pm, day 30, finished. One-hundred and twenty-five pages, 50,000 words. A novel that ends with a shameless cliff-hanger. At least this draft. And it was a fun run for the summer. So, how am I feeling? Like I got something done, like I've finished a task, that I was able to maintain first person narrative for the run of it, even if it is very existential. I didn't mean it to go that way but stories have away of going off on their own. This I learned. The best of the writing was when the words poured out as fast as I could type (thank heavens I didn't stop to make corrections). Scenes came, dialogue came, characters were real, even the minor ones, except for a homeless bum who will be written out of it. I don't know how to qualify it except as a sci-fi, conspiratorial thriller. Or an existential exploration of identity. Or a romance. Or betrayal. It's got it all except some kind of structure. That comes next. Any suggestions? I've a few ideas on my own but I'm more than open . Maybe the next time we gather I could read a few sections. Now I drink a glass of wine in celebration. I'd like to shout it out from the roof-tops "finished" but who would listen? You would, I know and I thank you for that along with all the moral support.
The next official NANOWRIMO begins on November 1. Depending on the schedule I may be game again. This was so damn fun. Not Pulitzer material. Maybe paperback. Too bad tacky pulps aren't being published any more. But it's written and I celebrate. I know I'm bragging abou this and if I've bored you, stop reading. If I've bored you, you probably have stopped by now. Tomorrow I take the day off. A complete day off. I give myself one every five or six years and I'm due for one. Again, thanks.