The Writer's Life 11/20 - Only the Beginning

I made some dough accompanying a handicap friend to the doctor and got back in time to run the floating book shop, where I, like Clint Eastwood's Man with No Name, made a few dollars more. My thanks to the buyers, especially Steve, who bought a discounted copy of Killing.

I've proofed 79 pages of my rock n roll epic, Rising Star. I've found seven misspellings and such, made several minor changes, and added a line here and there. Here's how the novel begins. It's only a couple of minutes read:

1 "...I know it's only rock 'n roll, but I like it...."*

   The small crowd huddled before the stage, which was but a platform that rose a foot from the floor, tucked into the corner of the dark, smoky club. In design the place was like a roughly finished basement. The people cheered as the band capped its number with a deafening flourish.
   "Awright!" howled the singer, a tall, athletic, bearded blond whose locks fell well beyond his shoulders, whose taut flesh glowed with perspiration. "You're beautiful -- at least some of you are. All you pretty girls now, don't forget to leave your name and number. You ugly ones take care of my fat friend back there on drums."
   He was bombarded by tiny paper balls. Laughing, he tried to avoid the barrage. The bassist bent, gathered as many of the papers as he could and stuffed them into the pocket of his shirt.
   "We're gonna do one more before we go, but before we do let me introduce the rest of the guys. On drums, fatboy himself -- Richie DeSalvo." Richie banged out a crisp flourish and clash of cymbals, his dark mane whipping about. "On keyboards, our token Jew -- Mitchell Weinstein." Slim, clean-cut, fair-skinned, Mitchell smiled as he sent out an eerie riff. "On bass -- nervous Mike Scarpa." Mike bowed his short, compact frame over the fretboard of his Rickenbacker. "On guitar, the ice man -- Paul Ranga." Tall, thin, bespectacled, Paul struck a chord on his Les Paul that reverberated throughout the club. "And on vocals, last but certainly not least, the only non-ethnic, non-New Yorker in the group -- meet John Doe."
   Doe received the most applause and let out an appreciative howl. "You have such great taste. This one's called Star Chaser. You better like it."
   He counted time and music burst from the stage. The audience was immediately infected with the energy. Fists flew into the air. Heads bobbed. The sound was hard and fast yet light, accessible. John's voice, as strong as it was, was lost in the volume. He compensated with movement, gyration, gestures. He spun, dipped and danced in place, overcoming the trappings of the tiny stage. The others provided the pace. Mitchell smiled as he worked at his keys. Richie pounded relentlessly on his drums. Mike eyed his fretboard intently, as if fearful of making a mistake. Paul glanced at Mitchell and laughed.

Vic'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://tiny.cc/rP7o9

Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

Vic's Blog: http://vicfortezza.blogspot.com/

Vic's Web Site: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/