Many times I try to believe that I can be a writer. Then there are convincing moments I find an unfinished journal, a story idea in my purse or a random slip of paper with a clever sentence in the corner of my desk. I’m thinking that’s the behavior of a writer?
Here’s the start to a still unwritten story I found yesterday:
Roe’s Tows is where I work. His name is Roland. My name isn’t important. I enjoy my time there most days. I get to listen to the city folk, pick up the suburbanites when their SUV’s break-down and tinker with car engines in between. Of course Roe doesn’t tell them their cars are also guinea pigs for me to learn small engine repair. He summarizes the bill in mechanic speak-easy letting the yuppies know they received an overhaul, flush-and-fill or detail. Really what they get is a brillo pad rubbed over their spark plugs, a basic oil change, or a once over with the shop vac to suck up all their Altoids.
It’s only three pages but as soon as I found it, I realized the garage remains a picture in my mind, my feelings for this single Mom are still raw and her kids in the back lot are hoping to walk home to a meal tonight…
Only a “writer” would know the full story and how it ends, right? I am attached to the characters and what lies ahead for them.
There’s one thing I have to know though – would you keep reading?