I have recently been told that my writing has been falling further into the category of Paranormal Romance. I have yet to read up on it, but from what I have been told it makes fairly good sense. Much of my writing involves the paranormal and all my stories are heavily relationship laden. All types of relationships. Must be the mental health work tested empath in me.
My main WIP, ‘Ghost Mountain’, focuses on a small town, a mountain that isn’t what it seems, a burdened man and the people in his life—alive and dead and a fairly eerie mystery to be solved. Sheriff Wyatt Paxton is a good man, but never to himself. My intentions are to get that big old Mountain figured out, the paranormal part of the story straightened out and Wyatt caring a little more about himself and allowing others to care for him before the end of the story. I see all of this, but like Stephen King has said in so many words, I still have to dig it all out.
Below is a small sample of rough draft from a possible prologue I’m working on. I’m thinking of a memory/dream my MC is having and then he is woken by something fairly scary/odd and then a more everyday type of beginning of the first chapter leading back to the MC’s memory??? We will see. Hint: Wyatt is the boy in this memory…
~~~~~~~~~~ He counted stars when he was afraid. Sometimes to twenty. Sometimes more. 81-82-83-84... Some nights he’d lose count when sleep finally took him whichever place he’d escaped to, away from one of his Dad’s ‘bad days’. The back porch roof just under the upstairs hall window when it was cold or out in the fields when it was warm enough not to frost.
But tonight-tonight he knew he wasn’t going to be able to hide from what had been done. And he was way past counting stars because the hurt and hate in him had become too much for him to let the fear go. All of thirteen and he was just too tired of staying. Besides, after tonight he had no home to stay.
“Boy.”
The young man jerked his head away from the stars and sat rigid, like ice water had been tossed down his spine. He’d been found, just not by the man he feared.
“I had a thought you might be here. Sissy let me know what happened.” The old man was casual, if discussing the weather. That had always been Willis Paxton’s way.
The boy finally turned and was met by eyes much like his own, big and black, staring at him from the far edge of the empty bus terminal. He didn’t answer, only stared.
The old man, a cowboy once—a lot of things once, continued to watch the silent boy. He inventoried the cut above the child’s dark brow and purpling shiner. The way he had favored his left arm when he’d jerked around to look, but made no indication of the obvious injury. And then the boys eyes.... That thousand yard stare this boy—his nephew, now wore sent a chill down his old arthritic spine. Old Willis could have swore he saw a ghost tonight.
Silvery brows drew further down, while the brim of a well worn Stetson became further mangled in the old man’s grip. God help him, Willis Paxton never thought he could hate this boy’s father—his own brother, more than he did tonight.
So carefully—cautiously like he was coming up on a cornered and injured animal, Old Willis stepped forward and sat on the bench behind the boy.
“So you’re going to Garretson.” It wasn’t a question. Wouldn’t have gotten an answer if it was. “Ya know Garretson isn’t much a place to look at. And it don’t have our mountain” Old Willis nodded to the quiet sentry below the stars and above Mercy Corners skyline. “I’ve told ya about our mountain haven’t I?”
He had and he was going to do it again. The clever old man knew not to handle embers till they could be cooled. He just hoped what was burnt up in his nephew cooled down enough with what he was about to offer the boy, before the bus pulled into the station. And whatever his ill tempered and abusive brother had burnt out of this child could be rebuilt.
