by Jackie King
Writing a book is an onerous undertaking. I’m astonished that a cowardly woman such as myself, would even attempt such a thing. But the compulsion to express oneself on paper is a sort of madness—an urge that can’t be ignored comfortably. Ordinary chores such as dusting or tidying up your sock drawer, can be postponed until infinity. Or as my mother might have said, until the cows come home. And since I have no cows, there will be no interruption of that sort.
An unfinished book, even one that yet has one word typed on a blank computer page, refuses to be ignored. This primal urge, for some of us, is like a mother hearing her child fussing in his crib, regardless of how high you turn up the radio, Mom will still hear her baby. And likewise, a writer must come back to finish that story.
At my age I often think, this book may be my last. Followed by, “Please God, let me stay healthy enough to finish this one.” And last week, when I sent the edited galley proofs to the publisher, I sighed a momentary breath of relief.
THE CORPSE AND THE GEEZER BRIGADE is now his problem. He will have to find the right cover (and please God, don’t let him suffer from color blindness), and get the thing ready to download and ready for the printers. (Book three--Cover as yet unavailable.)
Now I can take a deep breath and relax for a while.
Another story began crying out from its crib. This is an old one resurrected from years earlier, but now I know how to fix it. And that’s what I’m doing. I’m not sure yet what title to use; I have three in mind:
THE EDGE OF NOWHERE
GOOSE OVER MY GRAVE
NIGHTWIND (The Original Working Title)
So far I have one serious vote for The Edge of Nowhere. We’ll see. If you have a preference, let me know.
The story is set in a small, fictitious town in the Oklahoma Panhandle named, Tumbleweed. Many of the inhabitants descended from pioneers who settled the land and built fortunes when there was nothing in sight but sagebrush, prairie grass and hardship.
In my novel this question arises: Will a later generation be strong enough to withstand a new kind of evil?
Suddenly it’s my job to spin that tale. The story is in my heart—strong as the wind that constantly whips across the plains. Now I must get busy.