I have been writing a lot for the past couple of years. How much is a lot, you ask? Well, I have a few completed manuscripts that I’ve accumulated.
That’s great!! What are you waiting for?? Send them in!!
If only it were that easy.
I haven’t wanted to release any of them yet. And the one manuscript that I did shop around turned out to be lacking something. Oh well. We live and learn.
Yes, it’s all about living. That much I know.
This current project feels like it might be the one that sees the light of day. It may very well be the one that gets
published self-published. Why? Because it’s the only one that feels right: the story that is bleeding out of my still-open wounds. It’s not like I’m on a 1,000-word-a-day writing binge, but I’ll get it written at some point.
My goal is to have it finished and bound before my mother passes away. She’s not sick or anything, but she’s the one who keeps urging me to publish it, so I’d at least like to finish it before she does pass away someday. She wants me to get my story out there so others can learn and benefit from it. Plus, she thinks it’ll earn me millions of dollars.
Yeah, right. It helps to dream, though.
Anyway, below is an excerpt from my work in progress (I almost said Enjoy! but decided not to). Mind you, it’s a rough draft, so please overlook mistakes of any kind:
I never thought I would be so brave as I rushed toward my death. No goodbyes, no crying (and I was quite the crybaby). The four margaritas, each with an extra shot of tequila, had given me the courage, though. They had taken the credit just like everything else in my pathetic life.
Luckily I had enough sense to pick up my prescription at the drive-thru. The Muslim lady with the head scarf gave them to me through the window just like she always did. She has her faith. That’s good, I thought. I had mine: nearly two full bottles of Xanax.
Like in that Clint Eastwood flick where the one-armed deputy had two guns in his belt. “But you only have one arm,” someone had asked him. “Well, I don’t wanna get killed on account of not being able to fight back,” he had responded. I, too, wanted to be like that.
Not so smart now, are you?
Why was my mind still working?
Somehow I knew it wasn’t God’s voice; sounded too familiar.
I didn’t see anything. No blackness. Just… nothingness. Even with all the liquor and drugs in my system, I was still somehow tied to reality. What was going on?
“Scott, Scott, where are you?!” The voice was frantic. I knew it was my wife’s, even in my condition. That smallest hint of recollection. Funny how the mind worked. Her voice sounded tinny, like it was coming from my grandma’s childhood radio that she had shown me pictures of.
I was fumbling with my work bag on the floorboard. “I can’t find my phone!!” I was frantic, too.
Oh, I know.
The redneck standing outside my passenger window. I’m not actually sure if he was a redneck, but that’s what I called those guys in Texas who drove those huge gas-guzzling pickup trucks. I think I had asked him if he were okay. “I’m fine, but your car is totaled,” I remember him saying.
I never started up my car. I was still in the crowded parking lot of El Ranchito… right?
“Where’s my blasted phone?!” I shrieked again and again. It was no longer in my bag. I was going by my sense of touch, unable to see. I could still hear my poor wife’s frantic question coming through the receiver like a short-circuiting megaphone in the darkness of my mind.
–killed someone! You could have—
I was on my back, staring up into a bright light. Nothing but radiant fog, like headlights shining through early morning mountain air. It was a woman’s voice. She seemed to be addressing me.
–could have killed—
You could have—
Yes, I get it, now shut up, I thought. All I was conscious of was my vision, or lack thereof; I hadn’t noticed my limbs, if I were even able to move them. Was I strapped down? Was I in an ambulance? Were we in motion?
Who cares? The radiance was giving way to a shadow; an eclipse entered my line of mental vision and sent icy pellets of fear through my body.
I’m dead. Oh my God, help me…
Someone had an arm around me and was helping me walk. I felt cold. I sensed that nothing was covering my legs. Where were my clothes? I was doubled over and staggering like an old man, a few baby steps at a time. I’m 6’3” and a lean, solid 220 pounds, so whoever was helping me was pretty strong, that was for sure.
Come on… you can do it…
An old man’s voice. Maybe it was God.