Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Writing is like having a child. There is the initial excitement of a good idea or conception. Then the afterglow dissipates and we wonder what we have gotten ourselves into. When the idea has really taken hold (fertilization) we begin to realize the work ahead of us. We watch—sometimes in amazement, sometimes in disbelief--as the product of our fertile mind grows and grows over the months. Just when we think the hard part is over, labor begins and sweating, screaming and swearing we give birth to our work. But like birth this new creature we have created is only the first draft. We have so far to go before we can say it is complete.
~Larry C Kerr
Blurb for By the Light of the Moon
Small town America. A baseball game on a warm July morning. A boy is running through the outfield. Suddenly, he slips and falls in a cascade of red. After he slides to a stop in a pool of blood and gore, he finds himself looking at a human head. He screams. The terror in tiny Blacksville, Pennsylvania, has begun.
Can newspaper reporter John Reynolds discover who, or what, is killing the people of Blacksville? Will he be able to overcome the effects of his nervous breakdown? Can he trust those around him? Will they trust him? Has he found love in the little town? Will the killer take her? What Reynolds finds in reality is more terrifying than anything he imagined in his darkest moments. Will he survive?
He was going full bore, concentrating totally on the ball, when his right foot slipped on something wet. He didn’t go down on that step, but when his left foot struck the ground and slid, he was a goner. Tommie threw out his arms in front of him in an effort to break his fall, but they went out from under him and he slammed into the ground in a spray of red sending him skidding along on his belly.
What had he fallen into? Whatever it was, it stunk. Cow shit? No, it didn’t smell like that. He didn’t have a reference for how this smelled. When he stopped sliding, Tommie opened his eyes and saw that he was covered in red.
“What is this?” he asked as he pushed himself up.
He stopped when he saw it.
“No! It can’t be!”
He blinked his eyes, wiped his glasses and looked again. It was still there.
Tommie tried to shout, but his voice failed him at first, then he screamed. He leaped up from the ground as if it were electrified and ran back toward the field, screaming the high-pitched screams of a boy who has not yet reached puberty.
at 5:03 AM