The Writer's Life 2/1 - Plug Nickel

I drove around for about 40 minutes, trying to find parking near the Chase bank at Bay Parkway and 85th Street. Finally I gave up and headed for my usual nook and found a spot immediately, a rarity. And business was good. One man bought two Donald Westlake thrillers, another overpaid for a hardcover of Lawrence Sanders' The Seventh Deadly Sin, a woman purchased a Signature Reader for her grandson, and a vigorous old timer snapped four of the unopened bootleg DVD's I recently found. I'm never comfortable selling them. One, it's illegal. Two, I have no idea of the quality. I'd rather give them away to anyone who buys one of my books, but this particular gentleman always asks if I have any, and I assure him there will be a refund should he desire. My thanks to these kinds folks, and to Herbie, who donated four paperback mysteries.

I didn't spot anything fresh in the newspaper or online, so here's an excerpt from my first novel, Five Cents, which I'm currently reworking. So far, 135 typed manuscript pages have been whittled to 41 in Word. I have been a mad slasher. Going through it, it's hard to believe I thought it was worthy of publication circa 1980 or so, but the major theme, the diminution of the senses, is solid and should be given a shot at life. I know my work has gotten better since then, but I'm not sure I'm not just as delusion in terms of worth as I was back then. Delusional or not, the novel will be made available in print and on Kindle by next January, I hope. This particular cut explains the origin of the title. The protagonist has just spoken to a doctor in a Vietnam hospital. An old college buddy ready and gushed about this particular aspect. I remember his exact words: "That's art." Hope he was right: 

   “Hey Doc,” he called, “what happened to my good luck charm?”

   Samarian returned, pulled opened a drawer, and handed the medallion to Tom. “Here you go.”

   Even his bandages failed to conceal his happiness. He fondled the nickel with the fingers of his left hand. A hole had been bored through the top of Thomas Jefferson’s head, and a thin gold chain put through it. Kitty had given it to him on their last night together. It was a reminder of the first time they met, at a fraternity party. He wasn’t interested in pledging, only in cheap brews. Beer was a nickel a glass. Having already downed a few, he was a bit shaky as he approached the keg for a refill. He dropped the five cent piece and it rolled along the carpet on its edge. He searched carefully but failed to locate the wayward coin. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a girl holding it aloft between her thumb and forefinger. She was seated on the far side of the room, flashing a sad smile.

Vic's Short Works: http://tinyurl.com/jy55pzc

Vic's 5th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/okxkwh5Vic's 4th novel: tinyurl.com/bszwlxh

Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3

Vic's Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
Vic's Short Story Collection: http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tiny.cc/0iHLb Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kx3d3uf
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tinyurl.com/l84h63j

Website: http://vicfortezzaauthor.my-free.website/