In an effort to better myself and become a well rounded person, I have decided to join a writers group.
There was a time (another life actually) when I used to write about things other than cycling. I would write about anything that popped into my head.
Okay, kind of like now, but different.
I bring this up for tonight I was going through some of the stories I have on ice.
Like a stroll down Memory Lane, there are some good things and some bad. Maybe horrific is a better description.
I wrote so much that I actually wrote a book. Two hundred and eighty nine pages, single spaced in a ten point font. Unfortunately, I wrote it on an old Mackintosh and the only copy I have of it was done on an old Image Writer. I have thirteen pages of it in copied in MS Word.
I don't know what to expect from this group. I don't know why I joined. I don't know if I'll ever write another line of fiction again.
I think that it's time to air some of these stories out. I think hearing unbiased feedback will help me close some of these "open" files. And I think, after reading some of the submitted work, it will be fun (hopefully).
What most don't realize about writing is that it is an art. I don't think any writer is done rewriting and although a work may be done, it doesn't necessarily mean the writer is satisfied. It just means the writer is tired of looking at it.
Well, this is about writing, so I'll leave it at this:
A drop of perspiration slipped off my nose and onto the page of my book. I squinted through my sunglasses up at the blazing sun and looked back down at my book. The page was already dry. I opened the cooler that sat next to my beach chair and grabbed another beer.
The beach here at Lanikai was deserted at this time of the day. No one in their right mind sat on the beach at noon when this kind of sun was blazing down. The cloudless sky reminded me of a weekend I had spent in Sausalito doing nothing but drinking beer and walking the streets. The sky was clear and I was drinking beer, but there was not a designer shop within twenty miles and it was about a hundred degrees here on the sand.
I brushed the sweat from my face with my hand and looked out over the cool ocean. I had been on the same page for the last five minutes. The sun and Sausalito were beginning to affect my brain.
I put my book down and stood up. The shimmering ocean seemed to call my name as I slowly walked towards the small waves lapping the sand at the waters edge. Then, as if a gasket had blown in my brain, I ran full blast into the soothing coolness of the blue water. Diving in head first, I felt my chest scrape the sand before I came up for air.
Shaking the water from my hair, I made my way back up the burning sand and gathered up my things. I was just too hot to be out here and I was out of beer. I threw my stuff in my car and headed toward the boat ramp and the shower.
The cold water of the shower woke me up. I closed my eyes and let it rain down on my burning face. I almost jumped out of my shorts as the howl of a police siren wailed ten feet behind me.
The group meets at the end of the month.