I've always been a storyteller. I remember standing in the second grade schoolyard and captivating some classmate with the most outrageous string of, ahem, embellishments to the story I was telling.
A few years later I committed those stories to loose-leaf paper, with drawings and report covers. Next came attempts with typewriters.
Years later, I realized that there were such things as How-to books, and stocked up and read a whole bunch of them. But it wasn't until 2001 that I seriously started to write. By that I mean I took an on-line class in how to write, joined Critters, and I not only wrote, but keep track of what I was doing.
So back on May 10th, 2001, I wrote the first 380 words of my professional writing career. Since then I've written about a hundred stories and more than 700,000 words of fiction. Which means I'm still working on the one million words of crap they say writers have to produce before writing something good. But I have managed to sell six stories and win a few contests. Did I show any promise with those first few hundred words? You be the judge:
The Pierian Spring
Krane felt a lurch in his stomach as the lander dipped into the atmosphere. The steady keel of the carrier was long gone, replaced by the bobbing and weaving of this small craft as it descended. He could feel the thin wisps as they slowed the lander, and the wingtips began to glow. Weightlessness and inertia traded places, and he was pulled into his seat. Another swift turn, and the ocean below was revealed. Clouds, white like all clouds; waters, blue for the most part. Vast patches of greens and blues hugged the shorelines and equator. He accessed for a moment. These varieties of plankton were similar to species found thirty-two other worlds. Preliminary studies showed them to to quite unremarkable. Genetic makeup was closest to… He felt the beginning of vertigo, despite the momentary smoothness of the lander. Closing his eyes, he concentrated until the feeling, and the information, faded.
Krane looked over at the pilot. No queasiness showed, only an eager grip on the controls and the intense stare of concentration. His flightsuit bore colorful badges of rank and missions in contrast to Krane’s single insignia—a small stylized microscope.
“We’re coming up on the continent.” he said, acknowledging Krane for the first time.
Krane had seen the continent from orbit, of course. Now it was appearing on the horizon. The only major land mass on this planet, beside tiny outcroppings and volcanic chains of islands. He was about to access the tectonic and geological records, but hesitated. Later, he thought.
They were now over land, the descent moderated somewhat. The lander was now an aircraft, and Krane imagined the sonic booms below him. There was nothing to hear them, though, this area being devoid of any life on an already sparsely inhabited world. Those simple creatures, plants mostly and a few phyla of insects, had their fate in Krane’s hands.
