Here’s the first snippet from the first draft of the new novel. I intend to get this book done, dusted and published by the middle of 2017. This piece comes from chapter 3. It is set in a seaside city in England in the mid-70s. I’d be interested to know what you think.
Elvis is replaced by Roy Orbison who is crying. Crying. Crying. Midday comes slowly around the horizon with milky cloud cover and still the drizzle continues with grease its picked up from the boats that leave and return all day, all day. You can’t hear this rain. It lacks romance.
It is simply here and all over everything. Falling, drifting, falling, drifting, falling weak and capable of drenching all things. It hasn’t changed frequency since it began at dawn. It muffles everything in its grasp in a way that snow doesn’t. Snow silences can introduce drama into your world: good drama, play drama, bad drama, freezing death drama. Despite its nature as cold and white and crystalline, snow can make you search for contentment in warmth, you can shake snow off as you come into a bar or a friend’s house.
This drizzle can never be shaken off, it is sour and sticky, it is thin despite its deep, deep, soaking reach. It doesn’t wash things away or even cover them over; blood, fingerprints, and tears mix with it and its oiliness layering up like Damascus steel, before bonding with the streets and the people.
It’s Tuesday and no mistake.
(c) Copyright Timothy Noel Smith 2016