Have you ever fallen in love with the start of a story? Perhaps you are a writer, like me, who keeps these little scraps of story starts, almost like a yarn stash, hoping they will someday turn into a lovely story that thrills and inspires you.
I have such a start. But I’m not sure what to do with it. This week I came back to it, intending to re-invent it. It has been many things, but I’m still not satisfied. It’s like that lovely wonderful yarn skein whose beautiful color and soft feel call to you – but you can’t seem to find the just the right project for it! At times I’ve thought about letting it go, but I keep coming back to this opening, having a thrilling feeling when I re-read it, hoping to make it into a story I would really love. But . . . I’m stuck.
In the past several months you’ve given me a gift of hearing your thoughts on my stories. Your encouragement to write more about a character, about how she feels, about what she wants from her life . . . and I thought: why not ask for your help?
If you would, please take a moment to share your thoughts about the story that I have started (below). I would be most grateful!
Charlotte fell in love with the Daylight Saving man. He roared into town once a month in his chrome and steel Daylight truck, bringing the huge glass plates from L.A. and exchanging them for fully charged plates left the month before. The daylight plates sat on enormous metal racks on the outskirts of town, a spider web of black rungs sitting on an acre of red desert sand. His truck rolled into town from the west, past the dried up log fence of the pumping station, the empty wild horse corral with its scratchy brush cover, the flat front of the Mercantile Emporium, past the few regular blocks of sun-baked clapboard bungalows and heat-washed stucco cottages, and then out to the daylight saving glass beds on the east side of town.
There is a feel to the motion of mechanical things, just as there is a feel to the movement of sentient things. Charlotte, a child of the desert, feels it around her, the flick of a desert cottontail, the glide of deer feet, the darting of a cactus wren. As the truck approached her father’s diner on Russell’s first day in town she heard the rumble of the engine, the low hum of tires on asphalt. She looked up as the truck went by.
It swept past like the rush of a heat wave.
What do you think, what questions come to mind, what would you like to know more about? I’m curious, and I’ll be happy to respond to your thoughts. If you prefer not to post in a comment, feel free to send me a message at https://theresabarkerlabnotes.com/about/.
My deepest thanks in advance for your thoughts and observations. Have a great week!