So what follows are the actual first few lines of my first published novel, as they appear in the book itself. Combined with the last three posts, this forms a rough chart of my progression as a writer, from what I was scribbling up in 1987, to what I was doing in 1995 or so, to what I was writing by 2000 and finally, what got published in 2006.
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Sean staggered.
A stench crawled into his nostrils. Garbage. Rotten food. Shit. Even the shadows stank.
They were still out there. Somewhere. Stalking him.
He forced himself to move, creeping through the filth and the darkness. His gut ached. He felt the blood drooling out of him. It trickled into his pants, ran down his leg. It was sticky, and wet.
He had to keep going.
He recognized the street ahead. 9th Avenue and the corner of West 36th Street. The edge of Hell’s Kitchen.
Street lamps buzzed overhead; an electric swarm of pale, flickering light. Across the way, the minute hand of an old gothic clock moved one click. That made it 1:13 a.m.
Sean didn’t care.
Steam exhaled from a sewer vent. Sulfurous ghosts washed over him. For a moment he welcomed the warmth. But he couldn’t linger. He only bathed in the hot odor for a moment.
He fell, toppling a half-filled trashcan. Noise was the last thing he needed. He didn’t get up, not right away. First he grabbed his dented felt hat from a puddle. His overcoat was already ruined, but that hat meant a lot to him—sweat stains and mildew notwithstanding.
A sedan turned from around the far corner. Headlights skimmed the street. Tires squeaked on blacktop.
Sean scrambled to his feet. He stumbled backward, hoping to reach the safety of the reeking dark.
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Honestly, reading that over now, for the first time in more than a year, I feel like I want to get back to editing it again. I want to make some changes and "fix" a few things. But that never changes. and I've got new things to work on anyway.
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