I am having a writer’s dilemma: I have two works in progress and I have decided if I am to get either one of them finished in a timely manner, I am going to have to choose which one to deeply dedicate myself to. The first one is a mystery murder/drama which may actually evolve into a series. It is told by the Governor’s lover, a gay man who despises the Governor’s wife. This one is very serious with little humor.
The second one is a sort of autobiography; the names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. It is told in the first person. It is the life of an orphan who has matured into adulthood. My life has not been a mundane one and it has some very exciting characters and events. While it has some very serious moments there is ultimately more humor in this second one
Read, if you will, the two opening few paragraphs and tell me in comments which one peaks your interest most. Which one, if either, makes you want to read more right away? They are very different. The first one is set in Orlando, Fl., a bit in Chicago and quite a bit in Washington, DC. The second one is set in New York City initially, but progresses back to GA and then to Florida.
Delgado was not a name former Florida Governor Timothy Harrison would have chosen for his only son, had that choice been his exclusively. It was merely a Democratic political device of the times, and a Latin family name of his late and only wife, Maria E. Bohling-Harrison, chosen and insisted upon by her at their son’s birth, 33 years ago.
Maria was of mixed decent, with a Puerto Rican mother and an Irish father, but her Hispanic phenotype was unquestionable. She was a dark and richly radiant beauty.
No red hair, but her fighting Irish spirit as well as her peppery Latina voice were clearly recognizable genotypes. Although calm and composed in general public appearances, privately she most often displayed fiery temperament.
Living vicariously close as observer in those early years of Governor Tim’s second career, I was a young and impressionable man in awe of it all, the splendor of idealistic illusion.
Tim’s first career had been one of engineering, until that time, when he had been promoted to the point of actually ceasing to engineer anything but managing, instead, those in Civil Engineering who continued to work in the field. The frustrations of such management were met with savvy political skill and relatively easily quelled despite the presenting problems of a population explosion in the new millennium of Central Florida. Law, as a career choice, and the politics thereof, had initially been no more than hobby on the heels of his aging parents healing processes and the dealings with various condescending doctors during those processes.
It was during our last year in Law School at Barry University, and with all of the turbulent successes of that year and the years that followed, that Gov. Tim and myself were drawn together as friends and colleagues. He was a young man then, at 43 years. Not that I realized such at the time, being a younger man still at 23.
In one smooth motion, I clicked off the safety and pulled the hammer back on the little pearl handled Saturday night special and fired. The bullet grazed the shoulder of the Wolfman Jack “wanna be” and hit the headboard just beside his friend, Johnny’s, head. I could have hit his heart if I had wanted too. I had not hesitated to use the gun. On my grandmother’s back porch back in Georgia when I was four years old, I was shooting squirrels out of the pecan trees and skinning them for breakfast at the age of four. I knew how to use a gun.
The gunshot brought a scurry of people up the stairs. From the inside of the locked room I could hear people screaming for the key. I was standing on top of a table, in my stilettos and evening gown, where the Wolfman Jack like character and his friend, the greasy long haired near toothless Johnny, had been telling me to dance a performance for them. I had feigned some moves and was trying furiously to inconspicuously unlock the window so I could escape when the Wolfman Jack guy leaned forward to approach the table. That’s when I kicked his jacket in his direction and saw the glint of the gun hanging out of its pocket.
Nick was the first person through the door. He snatched me by my long blonde hair and jerked me down from the table by the hair of my head. I dropped the gun and scrambled to get my footing in the high heels. It was only a matter of seconds before I was being dragged down the stairs, through the kitchen, out of the back door, and into the yard. At least two dozen people stood watching; roughly one third of the party, and Nick proceeded to rip the evening gown from my body. I stood naked and bare foot in the back yard in front of God, the Devil, and everyone else. I was bruised and scratched when he was done. I had fought back, but at 5’5” and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, I was no match for him. The party was over for me, and I was glad.