Mark L. Van Name's Blog, page 251
March 24, 2011
In praise of Dan Brooks
I've mentioned Dan before. He's a librarian at the Cary Public Library. He organized
Dan and I aren't really friends. We don't hang out. I've seen him at these events and nowhere else. All I know about him is what I've experienced in those few contacts. (I know enough from just them, however, to guess that he'll probably be embarrassed that I'm writing this about him.)
My world, though, is better for Dan being in it. So are the worlds of the book-club members, and those of the many folks who attended the events he helped organize.
Airlines sometimes hand out comment cards so you can send something nice to their headquarters about particularly helpful staffers. Maybe libraries do the same, but if so, I didn't spot such a card as I left the Cary library last night. So, this blog entry will have to do.
Cary Public Library officials, if you're listening, here's one man's vote that you should be damn proud to have Dan Brooks on your team. Whatever you're paying him, it's not enough.
Sorry, Dan, for embarrassing you.
Dan and I aren't really friends. We don't hang out. I've seen him at these events and nowhere else. All I know about him is what I've experienced in those few contacts. (I know enough from just them, however, to guess that he'll probably be embarrassed that I'm writing this about him.)
My world, though, is better for Dan being in it. So are the worlds of the book-club members, and those of the many folks who attended the events he helped organize.
Airlines sometimes hand out comment cards so you can send something nice to their headquarters about particularly helpful staffers. Maybe libraries do the same, but if so, I didn't spot such a card as I left the Cary library last night. So, this blog entry will have to do.
Cary Public Library officials, if you're listening, here's one man's vote that you should be damn proud to have Dan Brooks on your team. Whatever you're paying him, it's not enough.
Sorry, Dan, for embarrassing you.
March 23, 2011
Visiting a book club
Last night, I drove to the Cary Public Library to be the guest speaker at the Strangers in a Strange Book Club meeting. The good folks there had chosen to read One Jump Ahead and had planned to discuss it. When Dan Brooks, a librarian there and a member of the club, emailed me about that choice, I was so tickled that I offered to come and chat with them after the meeting, if they were interested in having me. As it turned out, they invited me to attend the entire meeting.
I had a swell time. I can't speak for them, of course, but they seemed to have a good time, too. All dozen or so (I didn't count, because we started talking the moment I sat) members had read the book (or in a few cases were well into it). Dan kicked off the meeting with a question, and from there the conversation ran fast and furious for almost twenty minutes longer than the scheduled hour. We discussed everything from details of the book (and other books of mine) to my writing process to where the rest of the series would take us. Their questions and comments were always intelligent and thoughtful, and they had clearly considered many aspects of the novel.
I answered every question except those on the series' future. Though the members offered many good guesses and ideas about what would happen in the books to come, as is my policy I never answered anything about any work still in progress. I know that can be annoying, but everyone took my refusal in good spirits and returned to the many questions I would answer.
After the meeting ended, I signed a few books, chatted with a several more folks, and then took off. I find libraries to be comforting places, and it's even more comforting to know that people all over the place are reading books and getting together to discuss them. That the book was one of mine was icing on the cake.
I had a swell time. I can't speak for them, of course, but they seemed to have a good time, too. All dozen or so (I didn't count, because we started talking the moment I sat) members had read the book (or in a few cases were well into it). Dan kicked off the meeting with a question, and from there the conversation ran fast and furious for almost twenty minutes longer than the scheduled hour. We discussed everything from details of the book (and other books of mine) to my writing process to where the rest of the series would take us. Their questions and comments were always intelligent and thoughtful, and they had clearly considered many aspects of the novel.
I answered every question except those on the series' future. Though the members offered many good guesses and ideas about what would happen in the books to come, as is my policy I never answered anything about any work still in progress. I know that can be annoying, but everyone took my refusal in good spirits and returned to the many questions I would answer.
After the meeting ended, I signed a few books, chatted with a several more folks, and then took off. I find libraries to be comforting places, and it's even more comforting to know that people all over the place are reading books and getting together to discuss them. That the book was one of mine was icing on the cake.
March 22, 2011
A TED talk I loved
In my blog entries on this year's TEDActive, I commented on a lot of the talks I saw. From time to time, though, I may point out a few that I think are particularly worthy of your attention.
The presentation below is one of them.
It's not about social change or bettering the world. It's not from a world leader or a Nobel Laureate. It's not a call to action.
What it is is a wonderful presentation from a young spoken-word poet, Sarah Kay, who blew away the TED audiences and earned multiple standing ovations. Sometimes nothing more complicated than a person telling stories, in poetry or prose or whatever, is the most powerful and perfect thing in the world.
I hope you enjoy her work and her talk as much as I did.
The presentation below is one of them.
It's not about social change or bettering the world. It's not from a world leader or a Nobel Laureate. It's not a call to action.
What it is is a wonderful presentation from a young spoken-word poet, Sarah Kay, who blew away the TED audiences and earned multiple standing ovations. Sometimes nothing more complicated than a person telling stories, in poetry or prose or whatever, is the most powerful and perfect thing in the world.
I hope you enjoy her work and her talk as much as I did.
March 21, 2011
Limitless
I'm a sucker for superhero films of all types, so it's no surprise that last night we headed out to see this superman-via-superdrug flick. I wasn't at all sure, however, what plot arc to expect.
In retrospect, I should have been. (Warning: spoilers ahead.)
The trailer told the set-up: smart but failing loser acquires miracle drug and turns into uber-successful genius winner. The question was how to resolve the problems that such a drug was almost certain to cause, problems that would have to include dependence and some serious side-effects if the film was to have any drama at all.
Twenty or thirty years ago, the answer would have been clear: the man must give up the drug, compete on his own, and either win or at least show well, but always on his own. He could not win from something as cheap and, in the mood of that time, basically immoral as a magic pill.
Limitless looked for a time as if it would follow that same trajectory. Bradley Cooper's Eddie Mora is definitely a loser, becomes a huge winner, experiences serious side effects (including possibly committing a murder, something we're never sure if he has really done), crashes a lot, blacks out, loses his girlfriend for the second time, and so on.
What happens then, however, is the sign of these times: he kills the bad guys who come after him--but only by regaining his drug-made smarts by literally drinking some of the blood of one of them so he can get some of the drug into this system. Then, in a matter of a minute or so, the film flashes to today and a very cleaned-up Eddie. He's got a new short haircut, he's the clear front-runner for a U.S. Senate seat, he beats a business adversary, and he gets back his girl, who no longer seems worried about the drug usage that caused her to leave before.
Did he drop the drug? Hell, no; he perfected it. That conclusion is quite logical. After all, if he's one of the smartest people alive, he should be able to do better than the people who invented or possibly even find another way to up-fit his brain. The ending is also, however, a reflection of a world in which taking a drug to fix any problem is fine. Part of me hates that world. Another part has to admit that if I could pop a pill that with no side effects would let me have Jeni's ice cream at every meal and remain at my perfect weight and have rippling abs of steel, I would do it. It would bother me, but I would do it.
I enjoyed taking the Limitless ride, but I also left the theater surprisingly deep in thought about the worldview it espouses.
In retrospect, I should have been. (Warning: spoilers ahead.)
The trailer told the set-up: smart but failing loser acquires miracle drug and turns into uber-successful genius winner. The question was how to resolve the problems that such a drug was almost certain to cause, problems that would have to include dependence and some serious side-effects if the film was to have any drama at all.
Twenty or thirty years ago, the answer would have been clear: the man must give up the drug, compete on his own, and either win or at least show well, but always on his own. He could not win from something as cheap and, in the mood of that time, basically immoral as a magic pill.
Limitless looked for a time as if it would follow that same trajectory. Bradley Cooper's Eddie Mora is definitely a loser, becomes a huge winner, experiences serious side effects (including possibly committing a murder, something we're never sure if he has really done), crashes a lot, blacks out, loses his girlfriend for the second time, and so on.
What happens then, however, is the sign of these times: he kills the bad guys who come after him--but only by regaining his drug-made smarts by literally drinking some of the blood of one of them so he can get some of the drug into this system. Then, in a matter of a minute or so, the film flashes to today and a very cleaned-up Eddie. He's got a new short haircut, he's the clear front-runner for a U.S. Senate seat, he beats a business adversary, and he gets back his girl, who no longer seems worried about the drug usage that caused her to leave before.
Did he drop the drug? Hell, no; he perfected it. That conclusion is quite logical. After all, if he's one of the smartest people alive, he should be able to do better than the people who invented or possibly even find another way to up-fit his brain. The ending is also, however, a reflection of a world in which taking a drug to fix any problem is fine. Part of me hates that world. Another part has to admit that if I could pop a pill that with no side effects would let me have Jeni's ice cream at every meal and remain at my perfect weight and have rippling abs of steel, I would do it. It would bother me, but I would do it.
I enjoyed taking the Limitless ride, but I also left the theater surprisingly deep in thought about the worldview it espouses.
March 20, 2011
Belated birthday thoughts on a wondrous moon
Last night, about three a.m., after the party, after the UFC PPV, after playing late-night Halo with Kyle, I went outside for the second time that evening and stared at the amazing moon. (If you didn't do the same, you missed something wonderful: full, at its closest point in the last 18 years, and so bright it lit the yard, this moon deserved your attention.) As I was staring at it in the cool spring air, I was struck by how little my teenage self's vision of my future had to do with my life today.
Though I thought otherwise at the time, though I was as certain as any young person that I understood all that lay ahead, I simply had no clue what was to come.
The realities of life with a job, friends, family, and house did not figure at all in my vision of the years in front of me. I didn't even consider that I might have children. I knew what things cost and how hard life could be--I started working to help the family when I was ten--but none of that figured in my imaginings of my future.
I was sure, for example, that I would do great things, but I haven't, not by any standard that matters to me. More to the point, though, is the fact that my definitions of greatness then were as gauzy as the lens on a Playboy photographer's camera, and since then I've changed them every time I've even wandered near one of them.
A few dreams, though, shined as brightly in my young self's thoughts as that beautiful moon and still lurk in my dreams today: to go into space, to write something of heartbreaking beauty, to somehow--as ill-defined then as now--make the world a better place.
My first reaction to these middle-of-the-night thoughts was sadness, an almost unbearable ache at my failure to realize the dreams of the young Mark. Now, though, I'm pleased that some of those dreams are still with me, as strong and vibrant and compelling as ever.
I still want to see the Earth from space.
I still dream of someday producing a work of transcendent beauty.
I still hope to make the world a better place.
Even if I never achieve any of them, I will at least have clung to them for all those years, from then to now, and that pleases me, lets me feel in usually dark corners of my heart that maybe the world hasn't entirely won.
I hope I never let go of them, I really do. I hope I never stop reaching for them.
And, I hope I never stop wanting to stand under a shining moon and consider that I could still do more.
Though I thought otherwise at the time, though I was as certain as any young person that I understood all that lay ahead, I simply had no clue what was to come.
The realities of life with a job, friends, family, and house did not figure at all in my vision of the years in front of me. I didn't even consider that I might have children. I knew what things cost and how hard life could be--I started working to help the family when I was ten--but none of that figured in my imaginings of my future.
I was sure, for example, that I would do great things, but I haven't, not by any standard that matters to me. More to the point, though, is the fact that my definitions of greatness then were as gauzy as the lens on a Playboy photographer's camera, and since then I've changed them every time I've even wandered near one of them.
A few dreams, though, shined as brightly in my young self's thoughts as that beautiful moon and still lurk in my dreams today: to go into space, to write something of heartbreaking beauty, to somehow--as ill-defined then as now--make the world a better place.
My first reaction to these middle-of-the-night thoughts was sadness, an almost unbearable ache at my failure to realize the dreams of the young Mark. Now, though, I'm pleased that some of those dreams are still with me, as strong and vibrant and compelling as ever.
I still want to see the Earth from space.
I still dream of someday producing a work of transcendent beauty.
I still hope to make the world a better place.
Even if I never achieve any of them, I will at least have clung to them for all those years, from then to now, and that pleases me, lets me feel in usually dark corners of my heart that maybe the world hasn't entirely won.
I hope I never let go of them, I really do. I hope I never stop reaching for them.
And, I hope I never stop wanting to stand under a shining moon and consider that I could still do more.
March 19, 2011
What's for dinner tonight?
At my house, where not quite thirty of us are gathering soon for a late dinner/birthday party/UFC PPV event, it's the noble muffuletta. (If you've never heard of the sandwich, follow that link and read about it; I'll wait.)
I first encountered the muffuletta in Tallahassee in a small and short-lived restaurant that a Cajun man from New Orleans had opened on a shoestring budget. I fell in love with the sandwich immediately. The restaurant vanished almost as quickly.
The next time I had a chance to taste one was in New Orleans, and again I loved it.
Over the following years, I tried versions of it from many different restaurants, but none came close to the New Orleans original.
Then, some years ago, I decided to see if I could get them straight from the source. I could, and I did. Via the magic of FedEx and the application of entirely too much coin for any sensible person to spend on a mere sandwich, muffulettas from New Orleans' deservedly famous Central Grocery appeared on my doorstep. They did so again yesterday, as they have each year since that time.
If you're ever in New Orleans (or feel like spending way too much just to know what you've been missing), definitely wander by Central Grocery, order a quarter or a half of a muffuletta (unless your appetite is huge, more than that will cause you to burst), and enjoy.
I first encountered the muffuletta in Tallahassee in a small and short-lived restaurant that a Cajun man from New Orleans had opened on a shoestring budget. I fell in love with the sandwich immediately. The restaurant vanished almost as quickly.
The next time I had a chance to taste one was in New Orleans, and again I loved it.
Over the following years, I tried versions of it from many different restaurants, but none came close to the New Orleans original.
Then, some years ago, I decided to see if I could get them straight from the source. I could, and I did. Via the magic of FedEx and the application of entirely too much coin for any sensible person to spend on a mere sandwich, muffulettas from New Orleans' deservedly famous Central Grocery appeared on my doorstep. They did so again yesterday, as they have each year since that time.
If you're ever in New Orleans (or feel like spending way too much just to know what you've been missing), definitely wander by Central Grocery, order a quarter or a half of a muffuletta (unless your appetite is huge, more than that will cause you to burst), and enjoy.
March 18, 2011
Paul
I went to see this movie earlier tonight, on opening day. I had to. Consider just some of its attractions:
* Simon Pegg. I've been a fan of his since Shaun of the Dead. I also strongly support his position on traditional zombie values.
* Nick Frost. He and Pegg have a friendship that shines through in their buddy films.
* It's a road-trip film. I'm a sucker for them. Add the fact that the journey is to save an alien (the title character) from ruthless government pursuers, and you have a fine starting point for a run down the back roads of the USA's UFO heartland.
* Their adventure starts at the San Diego Comic-Con. I've always wanted to attend this con, and it is one of the geek meccas.
* It's full of fan-boy in-jokes. I'm quite sure I didn't catch them all, and I caught a lot of them. I'm clearly in its target demographic.
Though my attendance was certain, my reaction was not. I feared the movie would be simply too dumb for me to enjoy.
It wasn't, though at times it veered mighty close to the cliff edge of stupidity. To avoid being annoyed at those moments, I had to check my disbelief at the theater door, turn down my mental processing speed, and accept the movie for the silly bit of fun that it was.
Fortunately, I did all of those things, so I had a fine time watching Paul.
I've been saying similar things about a lot of films lately, and that's sad. I'm completely willing to sign up for and enjoy fluffy entertainment, but I'm beginning to crave the intelligent, well-plotted action or comedy movie with characters who are real and stories that make sense.
Until one of those pops up, though, check out Paul. If you're at all an SF fan-boy or fan-girl, you'll enjoy it.
* Simon Pegg. I've been a fan of his since Shaun of the Dead. I also strongly support his position on traditional zombie values.
* Nick Frost. He and Pegg have a friendship that shines through in their buddy films.
* It's a road-trip film. I'm a sucker for them. Add the fact that the journey is to save an alien (the title character) from ruthless government pursuers, and you have a fine starting point for a run down the back roads of the USA's UFO heartland.
* Their adventure starts at the San Diego Comic-Con. I've always wanted to attend this con, and it is one of the geek meccas.
* It's full of fan-boy in-jokes. I'm quite sure I didn't catch them all, and I caught a lot of them. I'm clearly in its target demographic.
Though my attendance was certain, my reaction was not. I feared the movie would be simply too dumb for me to enjoy.
It wasn't, though at times it veered mighty close to the cliff edge of stupidity. To avoid being annoyed at those moments, I had to check my disbelief at the theater door, turn down my mental processing speed, and accept the movie for the silly bit of fun that it was.
Fortunately, I did all of those things, so I had a fine time watching Paul.
I've been saying similar things about a lot of films lately, and that's sad. I'm completely willing to sign up for and enjoy fluffy entertainment, but I'm beginning to crave the intelligent, well-plotted action or comedy movie with characters who are real and stories that make sense.
Until one of those pops up, though, check out Paul. If you're at all an SF fan-boy or fan-girl, you'll enjoy it.
March 17, 2011
New developments in the allergy serum war
If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I give myself two allergy shots every three weeks. To do that, I naturally need two vials of serum from my ENT practice. My ENT's main office is more than half an hour from my house and completely out of all my normal driving routes. The ENT also maintains an office right on a road I drive to work. So, I like to pick up my serum there.
The problem is, for reasons I don't understand, the ENT seems determined to make that as difficult as possible. They want me to drive to the main office.
Screw that. Rather than cave to them, I continue to insist on picking it up at my local clinic. The result is that I am in a cold but active war with the firm and the allergy serum tester who works only occasionally at that clinic.
This past week, my new serum arrived. Tuesday afternoon, I returned the phone call I received. The woman who had called me said that I could pick up the serum Tuesday mornings from 8:00 a.m. to 9:30 or Thursdays from noon to 1:00.
There were two small catches, however: the serum was actually available for only during one half hour of the Tuesday time and for only 15 minutes of the Thursday time. They also could not tell me in advance which of those slots it would be. I would have to come at the very start of each time and be prepared to wait until the very end.
I didn't get the call until Tuesday afternoon, so my option was Thursday. I was already booked with a client lunch that day.
No problem, I'd go the following week (this week). I don't need the serum until next week, so that's fine.
Tuesday morning, I had taken off work and so decided to wait until Thursday (today). When I called on Wednesday to confirm my pick-up today, the woman said,
"Oh, it's not available Thursday this week. Those were last week's hours. You could always go to [the other office]."
No way. I asked what this coming week's hours were. They were not set yet. I finally secured an appointment next week--for an hour slot, of which the tester will be available only 15 minutes.
This fight has become personal. (It's also very difficult to start over with another ENT, and this is the only local one that lets you self-administer the shots.) I will show up at the start of that hour next week, but I will also do something annoying, perhaps bring a boom-box or eat something particularly stinky while standing in front of the receptionist's window. If I'm going to suffer, they are, too.
My own irrationality on this topic surprises me, but I don't care; I will not lose this fight.
The problem is, for reasons I don't understand, the ENT seems determined to make that as difficult as possible. They want me to drive to the main office.
Screw that. Rather than cave to them, I continue to insist on picking it up at my local clinic. The result is that I am in a cold but active war with the firm and the allergy serum tester who works only occasionally at that clinic.
This past week, my new serum arrived. Tuesday afternoon, I returned the phone call I received. The woman who had called me said that I could pick up the serum Tuesday mornings from 8:00 a.m. to 9:30 or Thursdays from noon to 1:00.
There were two small catches, however: the serum was actually available for only during one half hour of the Tuesday time and for only 15 minutes of the Thursday time. They also could not tell me in advance which of those slots it would be. I would have to come at the very start of each time and be prepared to wait until the very end.
I didn't get the call until Tuesday afternoon, so my option was Thursday. I was already booked with a client lunch that day.
No problem, I'd go the following week (this week). I don't need the serum until next week, so that's fine.
Tuesday morning, I had taken off work and so decided to wait until Thursday (today). When I called on Wednesday to confirm my pick-up today, the woman said,
"Oh, it's not available Thursday this week. Those were last week's hours. You could always go to [the other office]."
No way. I asked what this coming week's hours were. They were not set yet. I finally secured an appointment next week--for an hour slot, of which the tester will be available only 15 minutes.
This fight has become personal. (It's also very difficult to start over with another ENT, and this is the only local one that lets you self-administer the shots.) I will show up at the start of that hour next week, but I will also do something annoying, perhaps bring a boom-box or eat something particularly stinky while standing in front of the receptionist's window. If I'm going to suffer, they are, too.
My own irrationality on this topic surprises me, but I don't care; I will not lose this fight.
March 16, 2011
How awesome was it here on my birthday?
Here's how awesome.
(As always, click on the image to see a larger one.)
These two trees are not mine, alas. They belong to the neighbors across the cul-de-sac. I do love that I get to see them on walks and while driving this time of year. I feel privileged each time.
(As always, click on the image to see a larger one.)These two trees are not mine, alas. They belong to the neighbors across the cul-de-sac. I do love that I get to see them on walks and while driving this time of year. I feel privileged each time.
March 15, 2011
A birthday present
Yesterday was my birthday, so in the spirit of such celebrations I'm going to give all of you a present.
I've mentioned before that I've already written a good chunk of a thriller, Fatal Circle, that I plan one day to finish and sell. On Thursday, September 11, 2008, I read the first page and a quarter of that book at a signing. Other than that one time, I've never shown any of the book to anyone.
Here's that tiny introductory bit of the novel, in completely raw, unedited, embarrassingly rough first-draft form. These are the words as they came from my keyboard; the final text will be much, much better. (Can you tell I'm having to talk myself into showing this to you without rewriting it first?)
Enjoy.
***
As Mike Hood watched the two men watching him, he realized that the life he had carefully constructed for the last five years was evaporating in the shimmering waves of heat rising off the strip mall parking lot almost as quickly as the small, dark puddles still standing from last night's rain.
On his lunch break, stretched out flat on the low brick wall in front of InCompute, he was enjoying the unexpectedly hot last day of September when he spotted the two men for the second time that day. From the moment he'd left CitFree, he'd known they could come for him, but the knowledge didn't diminish his confusion. Why now? He'd done nothing to merit the attention, yet he also knew they had to have a reason. As much as he'd hated the agency, he'd never seen anyone in it act without a strong belief that their action was necessary and justified.
He arched and stretched his back, sat up, and pulled his hair into a ponytail, repeating the same movements he made every day before his after-lunch walk. When he was at CitFree, visible habits were enemies, weaknesses others could use against you. Only civilians could afford habits, and all the ordinary people he'd studied had possessed them. When he left, he knew that to fit in he had to have habits, too, so he cultivated them with the same studied effort he brought to every task. He went too far, of course--he now understood that moderation wasn't in him--and he knew that those few who considered him a casual friend thought him obsessive at best.
He quickened his pace as he walked along his daily route, up the covered walkway in front of the ever-changing storefronts that occupied the doomed side of the L-shaped mall, across the feeder road, behind the Burger King, down US 70, and then behind the Wal-Mart that was the only merchant keeping the mall from commercial extinction. He forced himself to look only straight ahead in the hopes that his tails would believe he'd become sloppy enough to miss them. CitFree never worked in the open, so the only danger point was behind the Wal-Mart. He considered cutting out that part of the walk, but doing so would tell even a bad team that he was onto them. He figured he could duck into a rear employees' entrance if it came to that, but fortunately over a dozen men were unloading a pair of trucks behind the store and he was never at risk of being alone. The tails didn't follow him, and he relaxed a bit as he passed along the white concrete rear wall of the block-long building.
As he emerged into the bright parking lot from the shadow of the Wal-Mart's far wall, they were waiting, pretending to chat near a beat-up green F150, and he caught one clear look at them. He stared a moment too long and for a second made eye contact with the taller one, so he nodded, said, "Nice truck" even though he knew they probably couldn't hear him, and kept moving. He had to force himself not to shake his head in disgust at himself; making eye contact was inexcusable. He reviewed the snapshot image in his mind as he continued on to the front of InCompute. Both men were in jeans and dark blue t-shirts, and both wore gimme caps from a used car dealership down the road. One was Caucasian, a bit over six feet tall, thin, with dark brown hair, a few days of stubble, and a thin pale line showing above the tanned part of his right arm and below his t-shirt sleeve. The other was a few inches shorter, probably twenty pounds heavier, and Hispanic.
He noted in their reflections in the InCompute window that both were watching him directly; amateurs. Either CitFree was desperate for help, or he'd somehow attracted the attention of some low-end local group. He knew from the study of the area he'd made before he chose it that even the bikers who ran the organized trades in Raleigh and Durham would handle a surveillance job better than these two losers.
No, a local group made no sense. Stick to Occam's razor, he reminded himself; someone from CitFree had to be running these guys. That he couldn't spot the agent in charge suggested that he might know the leader.
Too bad; he hated killing people he knew.
I've mentioned before that I've already written a good chunk of a thriller, Fatal Circle, that I plan one day to finish and sell. On Thursday, September 11, 2008, I read the first page and a quarter of that book at a signing. Other than that one time, I've never shown any of the book to anyone.
Here's that tiny introductory bit of the novel, in completely raw, unedited, embarrassingly rough first-draft form. These are the words as they came from my keyboard; the final text will be much, much better. (Can you tell I'm having to talk myself into showing this to you without rewriting it first?)
Enjoy.
***
As Mike Hood watched the two men watching him, he realized that the life he had carefully constructed for the last five years was evaporating in the shimmering waves of heat rising off the strip mall parking lot almost as quickly as the small, dark puddles still standing from last night's rain.
On his lunch break, stretched out flat on the low brick wall in front of InCompute, he was enjoying the unexpectedly hot last day of September when he spotted the two men for the second time that day. From the moment he'd left CitFree, he'd known they could come for him, but the knowledge didn't diminish his confusion. Why now? He'd done nothing to merit the attention, yet he also knew they had to have a reason. As much as he'd hated the agency, he'd never seen anyone in it act without a strong belief that their action was necessary and justified.
He arched and stretched his back, sat up, and pulled his hair into a ponytail, repeating the same movements he made every day before his after-lunch walk. When he was at CitFree, visible habits were enemies, weaknesses others could use against you. Only civilians could afford habits, and all the ordinary people he'd studied had possessed them. When he left, he knew that to fit in he had to have habits, too, so he cultivated them with the same studied effort he brought to every task. He went too far, of course--he now understood that moderation wasn't in him--and he knew that those few who considered him a casual friend thought him obsessive at best.
He quickened his pace as he walked along his daily route, up the covered walkway in front of the ever-changing storefronts that occupied the doomed side of the L-shaped mall, across the feeder road, behind the Burger King, down US 70, and then behind the Wal-Mart that was the only merchant keeping the mall from commercial extinction. He forced himself to look only straight ahead in the hopes that his tails would believe he'd become sloppy enough to miss them. CitFree never worked in the open, so the only danger point was behind the Wal-Mart. He considered cutting out that part of the walk, but doing so would tell even a bad team that he was onto them. He figured he could duck into a rear employees' entrance if it came to that, but fortunately over a dozen men were unloading a pair of trucks behind the store and he was never at risk of being alone. The tails didn't follow him, and he relaxed a bit as he passed along the white concrete rear wall of the block-long building.
As he emerged into the bright parking lot from the shadow of the Wal-Mart's far wall, they were waiting, pretending to chat near a beat-up green F150, and he caught one clear look at them. He stared a moment too long and for a second made eye contact with the taller one, so he nodded, said, "Nice truck" even though he knew they probably couldn't hear him, and kept moving. He had to force himself not to shake his head in disgust at himself; making eye contact was inexcusable. He reviewed the snapshot image in his mind as he continued on to the front of InCompute. Both men were in jeans and dark blue t-shirts, and both wore gimme caps from a used car dealership down the road. One was Caucasian, a bit over six feet tall, thin, with dark brown hair, a few days of stubble, and a thin pale line showing above the tanned part of his right arm and below his t-shirt sleeve. The other was a few inches shorter, probably twenty pounds heavier, and Hispanic.
He noted in their reflections in the InCompute window that both were watching him directly; amateurs. Either CitFree was desperate for help, or he'd somehow attracted the attention of some low-end local group. He knew from the study of the area he'd made before he chose it that even the bikers who ran the organized trades in Raleigh and Durham would handle a surveillance job better than these two losers.
No, a local group made no sense. Stick to Occam's razor, he reminded himself; someone from CitFree had to be running these guys. That he couldn't spot the agent in charge suggested that he might know the leader.
Too bad; he hated killing people he knew.
