Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Day 6: 8014 (8014/73396 total)



I have started my second book. It's a psuedo-western. Not a real one, because I didn't do enough (or any) background work to get the technical side right. We'll see if I like writing it at all, and if I do, I'll rework it into something more serious later.

I grew up on television Westerns. High Chaparral, Lancer, Quest -- I loved them. I was especially fond of the characters who didn't quite fit in (Wind, Johnny Madrid Lancer, Morgan Two-Persons Baudine). I also love the American Southwest in general, and the wonderful culture there.

So, for the next 50,000 words, I'll be working on Storm. Why not? I should experiment during NaNo more often.

Here's a bit off the start of the story:


Carl Weaver wouldn't have even seen the half breed boy if there hadn't been a fight that spooked the horses of his buckboard. The boy wasn't even part of the fight. It looked like the Johnson and Bauer boys going at it again -- and they were getting a little too old for this kind of foolishness, and it was getting dangerous.

Just as he thought it, two of the boys came charging out into the street, swinging at each other and yelling curses that never should have been heard on the streets on a Sunday morning. Young Bill Bauer got in one good swing, and Leo Johnson flew backwards and right into the side of Gaze, the grey gelding with a bad temper.

The horse didn't like it. It bucked, bit at the other horse, Tora, and they both took off before Carl could do more than shout a curse of his own as the wagon pitched a little to the side and he came down hard on his right hand -- felt the bone snap and thought he was going to pass out right then. He tried to rein back, but Gaze had gotten the bit in his mouth, and he wasn't going to stop. They were heading straight toward two young couples, children in hand, heading for the church. He shouted again, hoping they could move in time, feeling his heart leap up into his mouth --

And then the breed boy was there, right in front of the horses. He caught hold of Gaze by the mane, and leapt up on the startled horse's back. Carl wasn't sure how the boy did it, but he turned the animal and they skirted by a woman who had grabbed her daughter -- white-faced, not even realizing they were safe as the wagon went past.

The wagon came to a stop a few yards farther on and he saw the boy lean over the horse and pat its neck, whispering something in the animal's ear. A moment later, Carl was surrounded by a group of townspeople, and when he looked again, the boy was gone.

It didn't matter; he knew where to find him.

1 comment:

cherylp said...

I grew up on Westerns, too. My favorite writer overall was probably Zane Grey. Though B.M. Bower (a woman, by the way) ran a close second.