Even before I seriously tried writing, I thought of myself
as a storyteller. During many years at
work, it wasn’t uncommon for me to incorporate a story from my own experiences
that would correlate with the situation.
Training employees on work related subjects can be dull and boring. I
discovered that interjecting a quick story helped keep people engaged.
Nowadays, in addition to my job (where I still conduct employee
training) I’m also teaching part time.
During the course of an evening’s lecture, I can see the students’ attention
waning. That’s when I tend to interject a story that ties into the material. A real
life experience with a humorous twist never fails to energize the audience and
gets the points across.
Recently I stumbled upon an article by Sir Richard Branson,
a business icon who recognizes the importance of storytelling. Branson refers
to the first stories from early man, usually gathered around the campfire. That’s quite an image.
Whenever it comes to writing, my storyteller genes kick in.
I’m aiming to entertain, to take you on a little adventure and share a laugh or
two with my characters. That’s my goal.
Along those lines, here’s an excerpt from “Devious” the
first book in the Jamie Richmond mystery series, which is currently on sale for
the low price of ninety-nine cents. That’s $ .99.
In this scene, Jamie is riding along with ‘Smitty’
Kleinschmidt, a Michigan State Police trooper, doing research for an upcoming
novel, when things go a little sideways.
Suddenly, I saw a
flash of light and heard a muffled bang. Smitty pitched onto his back, his
right hand clawing feebly at his holster as a loud roar reached my ears. The
door of the truck was still open, a brown arm extended beyond the edge of the
spotlight. A gun was clutched in the gloved hand. I watched in horror as the
trigger was pulled back for another shot.
Everything that
happened next must have been instinct. Or maybe it was merely a reaction. Or
dumb luck. Or the Force. Yeah, maybe it was the Force. I don’t think I’ll ever
know for sure.
I reached across and
pounded on the horn with one hand, flipping the buttons Smitty had used to
activate the siren with the other. The sudden noise startled the driver. His
arm jerked back into the cab and the door slammed. Spraying stones and dust
behind, the truck lurched onto the road and raced away.
Fumbling the
microphone off the dash, I thumbed the button. "Kleinschmidt has been
shot! Send an ambulance!" I dropped the microphone and managed to get my
door open. The frame around the window clipped my forehead and knocked me back
a step.
I'd forgotten to
turn off the siren and its wail was splitting my eardrums. “Idiot,” I muttered,
“stay calm.” This was easier to say than it ever was to do.
Reaching back
inside, I switched the siren off then rushed around to the front of the car.
Smitty was lying on his back on the edge of the road. Blood soaked the gravel
beneath him. His eyes were closed, but I could see his chest moving.
I dropped to my
knees beside him. "You're going to be okay, Smitty. I called for
help."
"Shot by a
dog," he whispered. Kleinschmidt opened his eyes weakly. "First aid
kit in the trunk. Stop the bleeding." His voice was fading so fast I had
to press my ear above his mouth. I got a whiff of grilled onions.
What if the truck
came back? What if they were waiting right now, just beyond the reach of the
spotlight, waiting for me to get close so they could kill Smitty? And kill the
witness too? I cringed. They wouldn’t need to shoot us, just drive right over
us with that truck. My imagination was running away with possibilities.
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