And now that you're a member of the Esscenic Confederation Jane, let's run the scanner across your forehead just to make sure you have been correctly dot coded.  If you feel a slight burning sensation that just means you are a good candidate for placebo curing.  Now, if the flesh begins bubbling up into a nasty blister it may mean you are not taking us seriously and ---

The way I would start it out is: Once upon a time when the urge to maim, butcher and kill was considered normal, a little boy was born who would change the world.  But first he had to find his shoes.

Other channels to consider might be: No Shadow of Law -- Life Without Protection, --Never Mind Screaming -- With Conscience Worn Thin

A breath of humor is a good way to start also:

Time stood still at that moment.  It was like when you reach your hand into the cookie jar for a treat and suddenly realize you have found a whole generation of vipers.  You don't want to jerk your hand out of there too fast because you want to savor the expression on your friend's face when he reaches his hand in there for a cookie.

I said: You said..

Setting up a comparison of viewpoints is always fascinating.  Henry Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson met by chance one night and just by chance both men recorded their views of the encounter.  Emerson complained that Thoreau would raise an objection to every statement he made, even the most trivial subjects were contested.  Thoreau recorded that Emerson couldn't make even the most trivial of statements without automatically assuming it was being contested, or would be.  I know exactly how they felt; I've had nights just like that, and there was nobody here but me.

MY BUDDY BOB:  

His first novel was a success; now publishers are begging for a second novel and Dick Taggart decides to return to his old hometown and remember who he really is. 

"Good Old Tom" Myers is the mayor now.  The hometown has trebled in size.  The mayor takes Dick around to all the functions, then suggests a "Dick Taggart Makes Good" Day.  Dick isn't all that interested until he arrives for the big day and finds that his old buddy Bob has also come back to town.

"Bob has written a novel too," declares the mayor.  "It just came out last week."

"You did?"  Dick grabs Bob and hugs him.  With his arm around Bob he turns back to the mayor and beams. "Anything Bob has written will be great.   What do you say we share the spotlight today, make it Dick and Bob Make Good Day?"

Bob begs off, but Dick insists.  "Come on, once upon a time we were a --- uh -- bosom buddies.   Sharing my day with you is the least I can do."

To keep Bob from running away from all the free publicity Dick clings to him as their pictures are taken.  Then they ride through town in the mayor's car at the head of the parade, waving at people, and grinning at old friends.

After the parade he asks for an autographed copy of Bob's book and begins reading it as they cruise the old landmarks together.  Half way through the second page Dick discovers that Bob was a homosexual, and that HE had been the love of Bob's young life!

He puts the book down and stares out the windshield, suddenly scared to death.   "You want out?" asks Bob.  Dick nods, refusing to look at him.  

As Bob drives off Dick realizes he still has Bob's book.  He hides it under his jacket and hurries back to the motel.  Later in the night he grapples with the meaning of all the things they had done together, he for believing it was the "manly" thing to do, hunting wild horses on motorcycles, riding beer barrels in the lake, going down the crumbling mineshaft, floating down the Verde, sitting in the ditch, hunting Indian artifacts.  Then he reads the book and sees those same events from a very different slant.   Slowly he realizes just how much he had loved being with Bob. 

They go out to the old windmill and souse in the water trough, drinking beer like in the olden times.  There they thresh out the meanings of their joint experiences and feelings.

You could make a very long novel out of this situation.

Without Faith all Things are STILL Possible

There are ten thousand books out there about the supernatural forging of a winning team combination to take that gold cup. Sometimes there is an angel in the outfield, or a cat in the grandstand, or a broken-hearted kid with faith and suddenly all the other teams fall apart at the seams and the losers become huzzah-hopping winners. "You just gotta have faith!"

Back in the thirties there was a team in eastern Oklahoma that hadn't won a football game in six years. The boys were big enough and everyone knows that winning is just a matter of attitude.
One Friday night an oil tycoon got fed up with the losing streak and he pulled the whole team to one side and invited the coaches over. "You guys win the game next week and I'll buy each and every one of you a brand new Chevrolet, and that includes the coaches and the waterboy."
Well, he had the money to do it and everybody on the team believed he would deliver the cars -- so that team went to work with vigor and determination. "We've got got the best motivation in the world now!" they cried as they pounded each other excitedly on the back.

WOW!  Back then only the very rich could afford to buy new cars!  A dozen of them went to the Chevrolet Dealership and drooled over that new car smell that would soon be theirs as they zipped and tooled down Route 66.

For the first time in years they listened hard to their coaches, they practiced harder and they screamed more vicious insults at the other team (still missing) than ever before in history. The scent of victory swept from group to group in town and soon it was the talk of the whole state. That next Friday night everyone in town was out to cheer their team to victory. The cheerleaders danced sky high and the crowd roared with enthusiasm to the BOOM, BOOM, BOOM of the drums when their team trotted out onto the field looking fierce, determined and grim.
Oh, it was a wonderful game. Touchdown followed touchdown and the frenetic announcers captured every bit of that fierce struggle.

When the game ended the score was 38 to nothing,
But unfortunately, all those points were won by the OTHER team, not the ones who could have owned a new car..
The team that had all that motivation had not scored a single point.

Why was that? Why couldn't they win with all that reward motivation staring them in the face, just begging them to yank it away and zoom off down the highway?
Well, the fact is: motivation can never take the place of practice. One week of frantic practice will never make up for the years you did not practice, especially if the rest of the world that was already working better and harder than you ever were keeps right on practicing.
I'm sure everybody needs a little pep talk once in a while, maybe even a drill sergeant to cuss them out for an hour or two, but how about coming up with a story where the plot is: by training hard and doing their absolute best the new team comes in LAST place in a league of 30. Show us a story where all the clichés wear out; where the very bottom of the deck losers are still squirming there at the end of the season.  Let them come to realize there is no substitute for hard training and power team building -- and find consolation in the fact that they did the absolute best they were capable of.

Let's twist the tale of history a bit here by giving Pilate a psychiatrist.  This trusted servant is set the task of determining if Jesus is mentally fit to stand trial.  He examines the man first and is told to ask those he labored with, to hear that which they have to report.

From this point on you have to decide, given all the props of modern science (like the Minnesota Multi-Phaesic Test) for your psychiatrist to play with, what your narrative will prove.  Does he have "a chemical imbalance?"  Which chemical is it that's out of whack?  Does the psychiatrist end up realizing that his trade is as fallible as astrology?  Ah yes, and what tests would you like to see run?  Now, since you have messed with history so much you are obligated to also deal with the aftermath, what will happen to the world if Jesus does not die?

 Serious Business:

In a quiet white room filled with computer monitors, a long-haired nerd in camouflage is squinting into a mainframe when the snap of a twig freezes him. Sweat glistens on his brow as he grabs an Uzi and hurries up the stairs where he is joined by ten other men in camouflage. He quickly scans the monitors spaced three feet apart all the way up the wall. Just as he reaches the top he spots the intruder, a black bear scrounging for dewberries. "No, NO!" he shakes his head sensing the impending doom.

The bear takes one more fatal step forward. The earth sinks beneath the foot and an explosion rips the basement apart. Only one Uzi comes down intact.

Wind blows amidst the flames engulfing the house.

A siren wails. A modern fire truck arrives upon the scene and the chief leaps out, smiles at the news cameras, and runs forward with a hatchet in his hand and a lingering smile on his lips.

The house explodes. A smoldering Uzi lands at the feet of the other firemen, now covered with soot and heat-wrinkled plastic.

They wait, sprinkling the house down half-heartedly until it is only a burning coal heaped upon the earth. Then they souse it good, and with wondering gaze at the Uzi, leave the sodden lumps behind in the night.

The sun rises and a crisply dressed German enters the clearing, glancing from left to right, and back again as he hurries towards the scene of the fire. As he pokes among the ashes with a long rod, another explosion blows him to pieces. His hat lands on top of the Uzi barrel at the edge of the clearing.

The sun rises. A James Bond enters the clearing, glancing only left and right. Upon seeing the hat atop the Uzi he pauses as one might to mourn the passing of an old enemy at someone else’s hand. Two other Englishmen stop behind him and look down at the hat. "I say, they are getting serious, aren’t they?"

James nods, turns to the pile of soot left from the conflagration. "Yes. And if they are this serious, then we can assume this is the most important project they have right now. Guard my flank while I take a closer look.
With his eyes studying the scene for clues only a professional spy can see, James moves towards the ashes.
There is one more explosion, bigger than all the others. In the lacing light debris falls back to earth in slow motion. The Uzi lands with its barrel stabbed into the earth, the stock quivering back and forth.

The sun rises in the sky and a very small crowd gathers at the fringes of the fire-broached clearing. People glance nervously at the crater remaining, and shift to get into the rear of the crowd.

Two Generals and a chicken colonel for each get out of a limo. A long convoy of battle-geared troops pull to a halt behind them. NCOs bark their orders and the troops scatter around the perimeter, unsure which direction to face -- in or out. One of the Generals lifts his foot and pushes against the Uzi’s stock so that it swings back and forth. He nods to the others and they go back to the limo, open the door and wait as a slightly built high school senior in a rumpled suit emerges. He stands for a moment, peering uncertainly all around him. Then he polishes his glasses and perches them on his nose, leaping back when he sees how close the men are to him. "It’s okay, Rodney. We’re here to protect you."

Rodney nods, gathering courage, then shrinking back when he glimpses the crater. The colonels are behind him now, a solid wall he bumps into and puts his hands behind him to see what’s there before turning to flee. They grab him, pull him back. "You might get hurt over there," they warn him.

They inch him forward until he is gulping over the hole, mouth open, chest heaving. A general is almost whispering in his ear. "The other side sent their top agent, and lost him. The English sent the best they had, and lost him. "This is serious business Rodney. We’ve brought you. Whatever was going on here, was of extreme importance. We’re depending on you to uncover the secrets of this place. Where do we start?"

Rodney glances down into the hole, regaining his composure as he grapples with the problem. "Let’s start at home," he says. "I can track this back until every item is laid out on the table with a surgical glove."

The top General nods. "Good. We’ve picked up everything in your house except your parents and sisters and moved them to an office in the heart of Fort Leavenworth. You’ll be safe there."

Sweat glistens on Rodney’s brow at the news. "Everything?"

"Everything," the second General confirms.

Rodney gulps and timidly glances at him. "In my closet there is an egress to the attic. In the attic, behind the third stud over, there are sixteen computer disks and two CDs with my personal programs on them. Did you get them too?"

The two Generals glance at the colonel, who frowns and shakes his head worriedly.

"We’ll pick them up on the way in," says the top General.

Rodney leads the way back to the limo. He pauses at the door to watch a work crew heading towards the crater. "I, I don’t think I’d let them do that if I were you."

The military brass shake their heads with wry smiles. Everyone gets into the limo and they take off down the gravel road. Suddenly there is an explosion behind them. They stop the car, leap out and look back, A fireball is still reaching for the sky.

"This is serious," says the top General. "This is damned serious."

He turns around, and the engine quits on the limo. The driver leaps out and lifts the hood. An explosion scatters car parts all over the road. Rodney and the brass are hurled back. Guns open up and the two Generals are hit first, the colonels grab their .45s and fire back, only to be riddled with rapid fire weaponry.

Rodney scuttles into the underbrush with the sound of hot pursuit boiling up behind him.

"This is real serious!" he whispers.

That is the start.  Use it as a springboard.   Fill it with research, etch it with adventure, sell it with pride.  Then let me know your success.

Are you a REAL writer? 
Take the Broken Key test!

Take any 400 consecutive words from your writing.  Now pretend you have to rewrite those words for an anxious editor and the letter "U" is broken on your keyboard.

Any word in that passage that has a u in it must be replaced with a word that doesn't have a "U" in it.

Ready, Set, GO!  You have fifteen minutes...

Hmm.  Let's rewrite that last sentence with the "U" gone.

Writer, there are fifteen min--, hmm.

This is harder than it looks.  Maybe I'd better give you an hour... No, that's got a "U" in it too. 

When I get a POV in a mess like this I back up and start over again.  Let's do that.

Are you a REAL writer? 
Take the Broken Key test!

Take any 400 consecutive words from your writing.  Now pretend you have to rewrite those words for an anxious editor and the letter "Z" is broken on your keyboard.