This Isn't Going Anywhere...

I guess what the dialogue does is introduce you to the characters, but, like for the one about the two people on the lake, the beginning few pages do little more than that. They have nothing to do with the story I had in mind. Perhaps, I have to think to myself, I was/am just doing some "prewriting." I had already created these characters in my mind, and created the situation they were eventually going to end up in. But now that I really think about it, I'm getting to understand how they interact and live in normal life before the story enters into the main part where real things happen. If I use any bit of this in the real book, it will be much shorter.

Anyways, in that case, and keeping what I just said in mind, comment whatever you feel like, but if you have something to say about character development, that would be most appreciated. It's very hard to explain, but basically with me, I sit down to write about these two or more people, with this plot in mind, but then I start to write an introductory interaction, and all of a sudden I see the two talking in front of me, and they sort of carry on their own conversation without my direction/guidance...something saying, "okay, it's time to stop chatting and time to start introducing other elements of the plot." It's also much harder to dictate what happens in story ideas that come from dreams. If it's normal every-day stuff, it just flows into what I'm writing, which usually happens to be normal and every day.......do you get what I mean? It's like...if you are playing piano kind of randomly, and just sort of picking here and picking there. You have a specific direction you'd like the song to go in your mind, but then your fingers are doing something else. It may be good, it may sound not as good as you had hoped. All you know is that the music is just playing itself now, and it's no use trying to control anything till the music is done being in charge.

Yeah...weird...

Okay, here it is:

The sun had decided to rise on that day. A day like any other day, seemingly. It may have occurred to some readers that, in fact, the sun rises everyday, we just don’t see it some times. And those same readers may agree with me when I say that those some times happen to be the times when life seems at the peak of gloom; the kind of days when one would much rather simply stay inside and sleep away the day.

Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on whether the reader is an optimist or a pessimist), on the day on or in which this story begins, the sun shone in the bright blue sky with such radiance, that every resident that resided on the long, thin strip of land that was Seahawk Island, North Carolina, USA, couldn’t help but rise from their beds with a sense of hope and joy, and an unexplainable energy that everyone felt simply must be channeled into doing a million productive things at once, and preferably out of doors.

This is the kind of attitude that possessed 17-year-old Amber Barton, a certain dweller on the said island, to throw off her covers, bound down from the top bunk in the room she shared with her 10-year-old sister Catherine, and dance towards the kitchen gleefully. Perhaps it had occurred to her that she was in no need of caffeine, perhaps not. Nonetheless, she quickly brewed some double-strength coffee, poured it over ice, added sugar, chocolate syrup and topped it off with whipped cream. The reader must understand at this point that Amber Barton was certainly, if anyone, liable to do and over-do most tasks she set her heart to. So this Amber did in the case of her coffee making that fine morning.

After preparing such a treat, she ran to retrieve White Fang by Jack London from atop her dresser before heading outside with these two finely paired items to execute the undertakings usually associated with coffee and a good book. Her boxer, the most loyal companion whose name was Wiley, was at her heels as Amber went out the front door. He lay down beside her contentedly as she sat with her back against the large oak tree which predominated the front yard of the Barton home. Occasionally Wiley would glance up at his owner, as if he was wondering if Amber was going to feed him yet. Otherwise he would relax; he was most likely sure that Amber would feed him once she was done with her present occupation.

Wiley became distracted for a moment as a figure appeared in the doorway of a house slightly further down than the Barton’s house on the opposite side of the street. He raised his head and his ears perked up. Amber’s head never changed position, but her eyes followed where Wiley was looking. She spotted the figure, and made a point to make sure he didn’t see that she had seen him. “No Wiley,” Amber commanded as the boxer inched forward excitedly. “Stay here.”
Wiley obeyed reluctantly, laying his head down but still watching the figure as the latter walked through his own yard, down the street and into Amber’s yard. Wiley let out a little whine.
“Alright,” Amber consented. Wiley eagerly got up and traipsed over to the visitor. Amber looked up from her book as Wiley led a tall blonde boy of eighteen towards her.

The boy smiled at her. “I see the sun woke you up early, too.”

“Yes it did, Omar. What are you up to this morning?” Amber smiled casually back.

“I was about to go on a run, actually.” Omar patted Wiley as he said this. “Would you like to come along?”

“I don’t think so,” Amber declined, shaking her head and looking away from the burning green eyes of her visitor.

“You don’t like running, do you?” Omar teased, squatting down on the ground.

“Not really. I function better in the water.” Amber expressed. The conversation was going nowhere. They were always like this. As much as she liked him, for some reason the conversations between them were monotonously about shallow, meaningless things. Amber and Omar had developed a good relationship based on small talk, but Amber wondered why it never got any deeper. If Omar really wanted to get to know her, he would make attempts at different topics of conversation, such as, “what view do you take regarding women in the corporate world?” or “what is it about dogs that you find so fascinating?”

Somehow, conversation starters such as these were a rarity.

“Well, just tell me if you ever change your opinion on running. It’d sure be nice to have a running partner,” Omar mused, glancing down the road, as if scoping out his destination, mentally preparing for the trip ahead.

“I’ll be sure to,” rejoined Amber, once again looking up into the green eyes. Her heart was, for a moment, filled to the top with admiration for the green eyes, though she was not sure why such a thing would stir up a great bout of emotion in anyone. With the fear that she might melt away in the presence of the eyes, which to her were quite the equivalent of a sweet, mourning Celtic melody, she averted her own quickly.

“You know,” Omar piped up, staring at Amber, unaware of the effect his staring implements were having on the person whom they were staring at, “you really should broaden your horizons.”

“They are quite broad enough, thank you,” Amber responded icily, avoiding the eyes. What if she looked at them and was so mesmerized that she forgot herself and did his every bidding? Though, perhaps when she was doing the talking she could spare a glance. This she did as she added, “Perhaps you need to find something else you like to do besides run all day, and make noise when you’re not running.”

“I don’t make noise, I’m practicing my music and expanding my repertoire of instruments I can master!” Omar protested defensively.

“Well, over here, it sounds like noise.” Amber stated, beginning to hope Omar would just go on and leave so she could stop being miserable about all of this shallow conversation.

“The sound probably just doesn’t carry right.” Omar concluded.

Finally, Amber could not stand it any longer. “Look, Omar, if you want to sit there and talk to me a while, at least we could talk about something deeper than the same old things we always talk and argue about, you know?” She scolded herself for being so cold, and immediately felt bad. Amber was not used to speaking so much of her mind.

Omar, to Amber’s surprised, was rendered speechless. On a couple of occasions, he opened his mouth to say something. At the end of the second attempt to speak, he clamped his mouth shut and simply glared at Amber.

Amber chuckled. “I suppose you haven’t the slightest idea what deep conversation is, Omar Pollard.”

In a most mature fashion, Omar stuck out his tongue at Amber, and promptly resumed his standing position, saying, “I’m going to run a mile—just one mile—and I’ll think about it.” He turned towards the road, breaking into a jog and yelling, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, don’t go anywhere!”

Amber, in the rebellious manner with which she was most comfortable, did go many places while Omar was away. She went into the kitchen to put a bagel into the toaster, finished White Fang, read three pages in the next book she intended to read, Under the Tuscan Sun, put honey on her bagel, prepared some superfood in some orange juice, talked to her just awakened Dad about putting a hammock in the front yard, and rolled out a picnic blanket.

Upon his return, Omar found Amber, on her stomach, relaxing upon this very blanket, eating her bagel, reading her new book, drinking her strange green drink and occasionally glaring at Wiley, who looked quite attracted to the bagel.

“Alright, I have it!” Omar grinned as he wiped the single bead of sweat as it formed and wound its way down his forehead. “As a matter of fact,” Omar continued, sitting down in the grass Indian-style, in front of Amber, who barely glanced up, and didn’t say anything, because her mouth was full, “I have quite a few questions to ask of you, but never have because…well, I don’t know. Since you seem to invite them, I guess I might as well ask them.”

“Proceed,” Amber said after swallowing. Wiley assumed this meant him, and made a lunge towards the bagel. With a snap of her fingers and a strict utterance of “no,” Amber sent Wiley back into his lay-down position. She took another bite of her bagel, and looked up at Omar expectantly.

Omar piped up, “Why are you always reading or writing? What do you write about? What do you read about? Do you like other things? Why does that dog follow you around? Does anything you like have to do with the fact that you constantly are exposed to chlorine and have water in your ears and a swim cap and goggles squeezing your head?” He huffed, throwing his hands on the ground. “That’s enough for now…” he muttered.

Amber slowly chewed her bite of bagel, looking up into the sky and contemplating her answers. She finally swallowed and took a drink. “First of all, it’s nice to know that you know how to start a conversation. Questions are always good. Not questions like, ‘do you want to go on a run with me this morning?’, but questions like you just asked. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, can you answer them?” demanded Omar.

“Yes.”

“Then answer them and stop drinking that weird spinach drink!”

Amber cleared her throat as she set the glass down. “I am always reading and writing because I find them fascinating enterprises. I usually read about things like animals or foreign countries or anything else with exceptionally good writing or intriguing plots. I write about anything that comes to mind, sometimes utopian cultures or teenage girls or something else—either something I know everything about or something I can totally make up. This dog follows me around because I am his female. He adores me, and respects me. Wiley does not love me because I smell like chlorine”—

-“I never said you smelled like chlorine,” protested Omar.

“I said I smell like chlorine,” declared Amber. “Anyway, in that case, Wiley probably does know that my main smell is chlorine. And I am not in any way mentally incapacitated by chlorine exposure, having water in my ears, or by having my head squeezed by a cap and goggles. Ask anyone.”