I pulled over and stuck my finger down my throat.
That is the first line of the novel. Vomit ensues, and those light blue oblong pills, of which he finds interspersed amidst the refried bean and cubed tomato. Here, I want the reader to see that a) Alasdair is on some type of drug, prescribed or otherwise; b) that he is in a somewhat fractured mental state; c) but that he can be insightful. Just having met his long-time girlfriend’s long-time bumper buddy, and doing so on the whim- or coitus interruptus, if you will- served to bring him to this place, to this midway point between Las Vegas, Nevada, and the lonely town of Burbank, with the less than satisfactory apartment, and Paul’s, the bar, and his tab.
Alasdair, well, he is a mess. Is his journey one that can be considered positive, fulfilling? Possibly. Those who’ve read my novella, A Mindful Rendition, might just piss on that idea. But it may be. Is this a redemptive tale? It could be. Are there moments of unbearable sadness and despair? Most certainly.
Ultimately, I think, the impetus would have to be my story. I heard somewhere once that a good writer utilizes their experience, their heartaches, pains, gleaned wisdom as fodder. Or perhaps that’s just the writer in general. And perhaps that’s not even a volitional matter. Anyhow, I digress, and I must explain. My story. Yes, the novel includes many of my experiences. Alasdair Galloway is me, in a lot of ways. I suppose I ask myself, why would someone want to read your story? My only answer, or conclusion, would be that, well, it’s worth reading.