I’ve been working more on the piece I started a couple of days ago. I have the themes, the major plot arc, and most of the characters mapped out. I assure you that it’s not “chick lit” as would typically earn the title, that said I’d not object to that title by any stretch of the imagination. It’s also not a romance novel, though someone made that logical assumption as well. It does have two main protagonists, and they do fall in love (or at least whatever reasonable interpretation of that state they’re able to craft individually and collectively), but “romantic” is probably not the principle description one would use for the themes tackled and the resolutions found.
Someone else asked if it has a happy ending, and the answer is no, but it doesn’t have an unhappy ending either. As it’s a story about life, and life is a story that won’t end until the last of us succumbs to the Zombie Apocalypse (or comet impact or religious tribulation or what have you), it doesn’t end cleanly with anyone riding off into a sunset. Happily-ever-after is the province of fairy tales and fantasy novels. I love both of those things and aspire to write them, but this is not either of those kinds of stories.
Growing up, I spent years believing that if we loved enough bad things wouldn’t happen to us. I grew up and discovered that bad things happen no matter how much you love someone. This story is about bad things that happen and the fact that people can love each other in spite of (or even because of) the string of tragedies that make up a human life. If you live a life without ever experiencing a tragedy, then you never bothered to live at all. The people in this story live a lot of life and earn whatever love that comes on the other side.
In this post I’ll put up the rest of the raw and unedited first chapter, and in my next post I’ll post the same for chapter two. After that, I’ll post my editing process and you can all see how I trim sentences and change words and generally whack back the unruly beast that is a draft into something a little bit more tame and readable.
The old truck rumbled to life and the radio crackled alive a moment later.
â€œ...more attention to the troubles of the White House just a week after Bernstein and Woodwardâ€™s book hit shelves, and less than two weeks before arguments over the secret tapes are made before the Supreme Court...â€
She cranked the dial over and tried to find anything that wasnâ€™t about the nationâ€™s obsession with Watergate. A few crackling bursts later and she found the station out of Birmingham that played rock and roll when it switched to the overnight pattern. Lynyrd Skynyrd jumped out of the speaker, singing a love song to everything she was ready to drive away from.
â€œ...Now Watergate does not bother me, does your conscience bother you?..â€
She left it as it was better than nothing and pulled out onto the dirt road heading into town. It took less than two minutes to get to the gas station on the corner of 4th and 4th, directly across from the post office and next door to the diner where she worked. The station closed up the same time the diner closed down, almost three hours earlier, but Bailey knew where the switch was for the pump, and she stuck a ten through the mail slot to cover the tank of gas that would get her at least two-hundred miles down the road.
â€œWhy Dixie girl, what on the good Lordâ€™s fine earth has you out at this time of night?â€ Mrs. Littleâ€™s voice rang out from her front porch across the street and directly behind her as she was faced her pick-up. Bailey was barely able to contain the fingernails-on-a-chalkboard shudder that ran through her at the sound of it. Town busybody, terrible gossip, and Sherriffâ€™s Wife, Eugenia Little took her self-assigned job of mother hen to everyone in a ten mile radius seriously. Her home on the corner between the town hall and the county jail just happened to give her a wonderful view over everything that might be happening that was worth repeating in hushed tones to the women at the rotary or the beauty parlor.
â€œEvening Mrs. Little,â€ Bailey defaulted to her waitress manners and gave the older woman her best welcome-to-the-diner smile, â€œjust getting some errands done before the heat of the day tomorrow.â€
â€œWhy would you be pumping gas at this time of the night dear? One of the boys will be around tomorrow to help you, doesnâ€™t matter if they sweat in the sun a little.â€
â€œIâ€™m running over to Gadsden tomorrow morning, early. I figured Iâ€™d fill up now and leave Earl a note in case Iâ€™m late for my shift. You know how those doctors can be.â€
Given how many times sheâ€™d been over to the hospital when her Grandma was sick, trips to Gadsden had become a staple of Baileyâ€™s life. She figured it would take Mrs. Little a few hours of working it over to realize that Bailey hadnâ€™t had a good reason to go to Gadsden in the last two years.
â€œWell...â€ the busybodyâ€™s face clouded over for a moment with an intuition that she wasnâ€™t getting the whole story, â€œyou just be sure you donâ€™t leave poor Earl hanging. You know how busy it is on Friday mornings.â€
If by â€˜busyâ€™ she meant â€˜two farmers and a deputy who drank his thermos dry before midnightâ€™ then sure, anything else would be a serious stretch of the imagination.
â€œI will Mrs. Little, you have a good night now.â€
Bailey hung up the nozzle and flipped the pump off, then crossed the street and unlocked the diner with the key under the flower pot next to the door. She opened the cash register and took out a twenty and three tens, then wrote a quick note on an order pad:
â€œEarl, I took fifty out of the register to cover my final pay paycheck. If thereâ€™s more than that, please give it to Randy and tell him to pay the utility man before he spends it on beer. If it comes to less than that, weâ€™ll just call it even or Iâ€™ll tell Jane how you run your hands under the girlâ€™s skirts when weâ€™re getting stuff out of the back. â€“ Dixieâ€
Below that she wrote in big block letters â€œI QUITâ€ just for clarity and then posted the order note on the line where the diner owner and full-time cook would be sure to see it first thing in the morning. Her grandma once told her that â€œsome bridges you cross in life, some bridges you burn.â€ For all the times sheâ€™s been pinched on the ass to earn a dime tip, this was one bridge she wanted to burn on the way out of town.
She grabbed two packs of Camels off the stack next to the register and a lighter from under the counter. She pulled one out and lit it up while she looked out the door of the place sheâ€™d worked for the last eight years. With one last glance down the counter she walked through the door and climbed into her truck, not even bothering to lock up behind her.
When the truck roared back to life the radio was playing a driving guitar rhythm and a deep voice was singing about the girls in La Grange. Bailey looked northeast towards Chattanooga, and southwest towards Birmingham. Beyond Birmingham was Mississippi and Texas and at the end of the road was Hollywood.
â€œPrettiest face since Hollywood...â€
She put it in gear to the beat of the music and dropped the clutch. The truck launched southwest, headlights illuminating all the something in front of her, taillights shining on all the nothing she was leaving behind.
[Word Count: 1345]