Breaking out Sofie

I am reading the book WRITING THE BREAKOUT NOVEL by Donald Maass. It's fabulous. Donald Maass owns his own literary agency. I am about half way through it, in the first day.

He has tons of good advice, which instills in me confidence in my finished novel, as well as ideas and thoughts for the next one.

I've had an idea rolling around in my head for some time now for the next novel. There are parts of it that scare the hell out of me so I've been procrastinating. First of all, it needs to have a Vietnam element. That's the only way I see it happening. Not being from that generation, I feel inadequate to write about it. The part I need is from the prisons. I have read and done a bunch of research but still, writing about it like I own it is different.

Anyway, after reading the first half of this book I heard my little voice. I think I need to name her...Sofie comes to mind immediately. (I realize that sounds pretty nutty, the rebellious teen I used to be says, uh...whaat-eveah!)

Thanks Sofie.... remember it's a first draft...

Her scream was the deafening sound of pity, grief and atonement, which shook the foundation of the house and sent all the birds and creatures outside into a fervent escape. She knew instantly she would never stop. It didn’t matter that the curly headed toddler next to her was crying. It didn’t matter that the blood was seeping into the carpet, spilling from the open wound. Falling to her knees in front of her dead husband, all that mattered were the words she’d never say, “I’m pregnant.”

The look on his face was surprise, as if the bullet felt differently than he’d expected as it ripped through his skull. Her ears were still ringing from the blast and now the screaming... the screaming, as if coming from someone very far away. She reached out instinctively, erratically stroking the man she had loved half of her life. He felt warm, real, familiar. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, knowing in some far off place, she must stop, but she couldn't. Not until the neighbor came. Shocked and horrified, scooping her off her knees, dragging her from the room.

Twenty minutes later as the paramedics loaded her onto the ambulance, she finally asked in a confused, drug-induced state, “Where’s Maggie?”

“Your…um…Mother,” replied the paramedic, Joe. This was his first call. Not of the day…ever. He had past the test last week. Today was Monday, his first real day of work. Nothing could have prepared him for this first call, his introduction to tragedy and horror. He had been nervous all morning, afraid he might not be ready, but it wasn’t until he wiped the dead man’s brains from his wife’s face he realized, he’d never be the same.