The Beginning

I have decided to devote this year to writing a novel. My mother, Becki Lansford, was always asking to read “my book”. She passed away unexpectedly on January 10th and, in honor of her, I am going to write my book. I will post excerpts and hopefully get some feedback from my readers, regarding this endeavor. I started a new blog because I found myself becoming a little anal about Dave wanting to write posts on our blog ( which isn’t fair. I also found that I needed an outlet for more than just stories about living overseas.

Enjoy… and if you don’t, tell me why.

Tentative Prologue and start of Chapter One:

It had all happened very quickly, the policeman said. Thomas and Sylvia had been driving a respectable 40 miles an hour as they reached the bottom of the mountain. They were almost certain, he said, based on the size of the skid marks and the height of the scratch along the mountain wall, that a tractor trailer probably came speeding around the corner. It looked as if the driver had crossed the center line and Thomas had pulled the car to right to avoid hitting him. The car slammed through a weak section in the guard rail and rolled twice into the low shoulder. Really, they were lucky, the policeman told Gretchen distractedly. If the accident had happened any higher up the mountain, it’s likely they both would’ve been killed.

Yeah, lucky, thought Gretchen. Why don’t you call the kids and tell them how lucky they are?

The physical act of moving home wasn’t that difficult. Gretchen would’ve called herself a minimalist, if anyone had bothered to ask. She had a couch and coffee table in the living room and a bed, dresser and her parent’s discarded 19-inch television in the one bedroom in her apartment. Her closet held shorts, t-shirts, sweatshirts and pants and seven pairs of running shoes. The bathroom counter was bare except for a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap. There were no photos or pictures hung on the white walls and only one laminated newspaper article hung on the fridge, dated March 1990, when she won her first match.
In fact, the only place where anyone could learn anything about the person living in that small, white apartment was the hallway closet. If someone looked inside, they wouldn’t see coats hanging on a rack or a vacuum cleaner hidden away. No, the hallway closet was Gretchen’s trophy case, housing more than forty-nine tennis trophies, starting from when she was seven years old.

(copyright 2010)


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