So here is the first line from each chapter. You won't be able to tell what the hell is going on but I think this actually gives a good feel of the vibe and tone of the book. Sometimes a little bit more than just up to the first period was required to get the idea but it is just a taste of what awaits inside.
Now the trick is can I get anyone to feel like putting it out? First step - agents. This is going out next week and I am nervous as hell about it.
I encourage anyone and everyone to spread it around if you like what you read.
Anyway, on to the Novel in a Minute version of Criminal Economics by Eric Beetner.
Rain hit the roof of the van with the force of someone trapped in a coffin.
Emma stood naked in front of the mirror taking inventory of everything she hated about herself.
Like a drunk college kid with his hand in a cup of water, the rain made Bo piss his pants.
The walk back down the two-lane highway was so hurricane-wet Slick may as well have been swimming.
Bo reached the two-lane road after ten minutes of climbing up and then sliding down the ridge; so slick it may as well have been lubed up for some anal.
Her first thought was Delmer. Who else would be pounding on her door that way? Shit. This would be the night she finally pulled Slick’s old Bowie knife from under the pillow and stabbed the fat fuck in the heart.
The pickup truck struggled on three tires plus one rim scraping down the pavement like a dog dragging its ass over carpet.
Bo thought of bicycles with banana seats.
Housekeeping was not going to be a selling point of this motel.
As Emma stood over her stove she thought how much she loved the smell of bacon but how much she was going to love the smell of $642,000 even more.
Bo woke up when the shovel hit the floor next to his head.
The Priest moved slowly and with routine.
Every day should start off with a good fuck, thought Emma as she stepped out into a brighter world.
Passing through the old neighborhood was like a walking tour of Bo’s failures.
Feels like Halloween, thought Slick as he strode down the street in the priest collar.
MaxSecure lockers and storage location #231 had a tiny sign hanging the lobby behind the coffee maker, next to the state guidelines for a safe work environment and the number to call to report dissatisfaction to the management.
(* author’s note - okay that’s not the most exciting first line but sometimes you just have to take care of some business)
“Bo? What are you doing here?”
Slick got there two footsteps too late.
Mrs. Boone finally sat down with her newspaper. Renting out rooms to college girls was no way to spend a retirement or a widowhood. Damn kids asking for every little thing done for them. Surprised they can wipe their own asses sometimes.
Bo quit high school a little less than three months before graduation. His chance of actually getting his degree on time was what his Dad used to call, “Whitman and Theresa. Y’know? Slim and Nun.”
Moneybags. Shit. She needed moneybags.
Bo slapped the steering wheel over and over like it had a stubborn mosquito on it that refused to die.
Slick took back all the times he called Lance Armstrong a pussy; bike riding was hard.
Do public busses come straight from the factory smelling like piss or does it take time?
As soon as Bo saw Emma round the corner, right on cue, a bird shit on the window of the Dodge.
The thick clouds threatened but refused to throw the first punch, like a guy in a bar fight filled with liquid courage and tough talk but no real desire to lose a tooth.
If visiting Bo’s old house was a trip own Memory Lane then this was the back alley right off Memory Lane where junkies sleep it off next to a dumpster and the whole place smells like a urinal and there’s barely enough time between gunshots for the echoes to fade.
There was a deep temptation for Slick to just pull up alongside the guy and gun him down in a hail of bullets, west coast rapper-style.
Bo woke up handcuffed to a chair, foggy, feeling like he’d lost something, then remembered – oh yeah, about two pints of blood on the carpet by the front door.
Fuck taking the bus, that shit is over.
MacKaye couldn’t stand because of the boner he was hiding under his desk.
At least the rain washed away some of the blood.
Delmer wasn’t the type to lift Emma’s shirt and look at her tits just because he could.