Hello blog.  Hello fellow WlPpeteers and readers.

I’m back.  November was the month for writing, and. . . I did abysmally.  I started off strong.  I was keeping to my goal of 1k a day.  And then. . . I can’t really tell you why it didn’t stick.  Life happened, I guess.  Good things. Great things.  Stressful things.  Family things. TV show things.

Lots of things.

Adrian has pushed me to take this writing thing (since it was one of the more laggish ‘things’ that happened in November) more seriously.  I need to.  On a public level, I want to thank her because she has done nothing but believe in me and push me to become better and slap me in the face when I’ve written too much of ‘that’ in my story.  She’s probably gotten after me for much more than that, but I haven’t read those comments yet.  They lie on the horizon of the editing world as soon as I get through all of my beta edits first.  Thank you Adrian.  Your faith in me is touching.  You are a wonderful person, friend, and editor.  Thanks for telling me to suck it up and get moving. That’s a true friend. 😀 You say nice things too, so thank you!!

Amy, you get a shout-out, too.  Your comments and suggestions have been awesome and MUCH appreciated!!

Spellbound is still in the editing process.  Captured is under way, and I had this wonderful plan to have it mostly written by the end of November, and I’ve instead wound up at chapter ten where I feel I am 40% along. I think I shall look into ROW80.  Adrian told me about it, and I think that’s more my style.  Create my own goals and make sure I can measure up to them.  I can do that.

So!  Enough of me blabbing. For the 10th day in the month of December, I am giving you the first ten paragraphs of my revised first chapter of Spellbound.  It’s now a prologue.  I’m curious on your thoughts.

* * * *

Oliver Greenwood took one bite from his corn dog. He savored the crisp, buttery crunch from the batter and bit into the hot dog, juices bathing his tongue. This was one of his favorite snacks to purchase at Harper’s Grove annual fair.  In his mind, there was no other booth to turn to other than Harry Tuftens’ for this traditional staple item.

The man was eighty-three and had spent the past forty-three years perfecting and serving the corn dog.  For some reason Oliver couldn’t fathom, the annual fair was the only time out of the whole year Harry fried this delectable treat.  He never opened a food cart or fast food place despite the years of persistent encouragement from local citizens, Oliver included.  Nicknamed Honey-Gold Harry—doubly titled for the color of the batter once it fried to perfection and for its sweet, honey-like taste—the line for Harry’s booth wound in tight, dizzying circles from sun up to sun down.

Addled with Parkinsons’ Disease for the last ten years and unable to perform the motor functions necessary, Harry’s two sons and their families handled the preparation and cooking. Still, Honey-Gold Harry was there and greeted every customer as each stood hours in line for his product. If ever he came across a corn dog in someone’s hands not meeting his rigorous standards, that person got another corn dog and their money back.

It was the story Oliver planned to use for his college entrance resume.  Camera slung around his neck, he’d captured some beautiful photos.  One of his favorite was of Honey-Gold Harry—his dark brown, aged and wrinkled face lit up in a dazzling smile—hunched over, handing a corn dog to a delighted four-year-old girl whose arm stretched up with wide-splayed fingers eager to grab her very first HoneyGold corn dog.

He could envision the acceptance letters already pouring in with the picture front lining his article.

For the moment, Oliver was taking a break from interviewing Harry’s family members and enjoying his second free corn dog, offered in courtesy for the article not only used for his college entrance, but that would also print in Sunday’s morning paper.

It was a warm seventy-two degrees outside with a slight crosswind tickling the hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck.  It sent pleasant shivers down his spine as he tapped his foot to lively entertainment onstage from the Cornrow Brothers.

Golden rays from the setting sun stretched behind the backdrop of the stage, allowing Oliver to take off his sunglasses.  He glimpsed gorgeous, red-haired Sharon up ahead laughing with her friends.  Maybe he should finally get up the nerve to go and talk to her.  They were seniors in high school, now.  Practically adults.  Prom was coming up and—

From up on stage, high frequency blasted through the speakers at a coma-inducing pitch. Oliver dropped his corn dog on the flattened mound of grass to clutch at his ears.  He watched Sharon lift her hands at the same moment, and from his peripheral, he glimpsed the rest of the crowd likewise covering their ears.  They were no longer laughing and smiling, but grimacing at the malfunctioning whine, expressions filled with alarm.

The four band members of Cornrow Brothers also stopped playing and mimicked the crowd, their sound reduction earpieces seeming to prove ineffective.

* * * *

K.L. Schwengel is the lovely host of this weekly event.  Many thanks to her for keeping this a livelihood and a ‘thing’ for Wednesday entertainment.

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