Anyway, I sat down for a moment to drink some cold water and looked around, trying to think of what to write. My eyes fell on my collection of ancient books--the kind that smell like time and mystery with crisp, frail pages. So I picked one up and turned to the first page. As a writer, I've attended several writing workshops and most of them drive into your memory the importance of the first sentence, the first paragraph, the first page.
So here is the introduction of a musty old book beside me:
The driver of the wagon swaying through forest and swamp of the Ohio wilderness was a ragged girl of fourteen. Her mother they had buried near the Monongahela--the girl herself had heaped with torn sods the grace beside the river of the beautiful name. Her father lay shrinking with fever on the floor of the wagon-box, and about him played her brothers and sisters, dirty brats, tattered brats, hilarious brats.
She halted at the fork in the grassy road, and the sick man quavered, "Emmy, ye better turn down towards Cincinnati. If we could find your Uncle Ed, I guess he'd take us in."
"Nobody ain't going to take us in," she said. "We're going on jus' long as we can. Going West! They's a whole lot of new things I aim to be seeing!"
She cooked the supper, she put the children to bed, and say by the fire, alone.
That was the great-grandmother of Martin Arrowsmith.
~Arrowsmith, Sinclair Lewis
Well, I don't know what I think about that but I suppose I might read a little bit more and see if it holds my interest. I am a harsh judge of books.
I also discovered the book was adapted into a Hollywood film.
Perhaps tomorrow I will write a little about Sinclair Lewis--who was a pretty rad dude...