"What Happens Next?"

I heard that a lot tonight, from people who call themselves writers. I can't really say whether they are 'writers' or 'people who write;' I don't know them well enough. I haven't read - or heard - enough of their work. For some, their talent shone through while they read their work. Others, it seemed a bit hidden. Nonetheless, I heard a lot of writers read their work this evening, and yes, I was one of those.

I took the first 700 words of the second book (the one I just started writing?). I'm not sure why I went or even why I read. But I did - on both accounts - and it was thrilling.

Others who read shared open letters to grandchildren, bits of memoirs they're writing, short stories, bits of their NaNo novels and there was lots of poetry. Even a really fabulous recitation of an e.e. cummings poem, which had to be told to form the basis of the "response" poem that the author wrote. It was a nicely diverse crowd, and I'm happy to say that I wasn't the youngest there. No, the youngest there was pretty talented himself, discussing his father's soup-making ability. I certainly wasn't the oldest there; my, that was an interesting story about whales and a frozen Neolithic man.

And yet, I know that some part of me went because I wanted to know if those 700 words were as good as I thought they might be. And my answer came, during the break and again at the end of the night, as people made their way to me, and said, "So what happens next?"

Obviously, I've got people's attention for the first 700 words. Let's see if I can keep it up for the next, oh, 50,000 or 60,000.

If nothing else, I can tell stories pretty well in person, it appears.