Of course, it’s not like I started on any one particular day. But it was some time around 1970 that I started writing pretty seriously, almost every day.
I don’t think I ever said, “I want to be a writer” (let alone an “author,” which has always sounded incredibly pompous to me). I just wanted to write. Writing was (and is) more fun than not writing.
So, I thought it would be fun to look back at what I’ve managed to produce over that time span. First I was going to write one big blog post, covering everything, but that seemed like it would be exhausting to write, and probably exhausting to read as well.
Then I read about this thing called “Seven Sentences Sunday,” which I learned about at Tiyana’s blog (hey, Tiyana’s posting again — drop in and say Hi!). So, I’m kind of adopting that idea, though with a twist, since these are not works in progress.
(And obviously I got it wrong to start with, since it’s apparently supposed to be eight sentences, but I remembered it as seven when I was writing this — probably drawn by the alliteration.)
Starting today, every Sunday I will post seven sentences (or eight, I guess) from one of the things I’ve written, with a little commentary. I’m going to start at the beginning and take them in order.
1. A Sane Woman
For my first twenty years of writing, I mostly produced junk. All of which is (happily) not locatable by any search engine you can possibly use, because the Web didn’t exist back then.
In 1990, I hit on the idea of serial publication, and started to write A Sane Woman, a novel which was published in little monthly chapbooks (yes, paper). There are a couple of things I’d do differently if I was writing it now, but I’m still pretty pleased with it.
Here’s seven sentences. This is the “inciting event,” or whatever they call it in the how-to manuals, and it turned out to be exactly seven sentences long, so it was the obvious choice:
Perry found himself thinking how nice it would be to go home. Then he sat bolt upright as a howl of anguish came from Sam’s room. He stumbled to his feet and crashed into Sarah as he ran to Sam’s room.
They opened the door all the way and stood transfixed in the doorway. Sam stood naked, his back against the wall, looking at the bed. The bedclothes were tangled and ripped, and covered in blood. There was no sign of Terry.