Prologue

The sun hadn't yet risen when John Wheeler's alarm clock buzzed softly, stirring him from a deep sleep. He rolled over, groggy but accustomed to the early hour. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, a comforting, familiar aroma that brought a faint smile to his lips. His home robot, an old but reliable machine with chrome accents and a voice that mimicked a 1970s radio host, had already started the morning routine.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet finding the cold, worn wooden floor. He glanced at the sleeping forms of his wife, Mary, and their two young children, tucked safely under the covers. He leaned over and kissed Mary’s forehead, then each of the children, whispering a silent promise to return safely.

Downstairs, the robot greeted him with a cheerful, “Good morning, Mr. Wheeler. Your coffee is ready.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” John replied, pouring himself a mug. He savored the first sip, feeling the warmth spread through him. Robbie had been a fixture in their household for years, a relic of the era when technology was designed to be both functional and friendly. The chrome and polished wood of the machine gleamed in the early morning light, a testament to a time when the future seemed bright and limitless.

John dressed in his hunting gear, a mix of rugged, practical clothing and old-fashioned flannel, and checked his rifle. Today felt different, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. There was an unusual stillness in the air, an undercurrent of tension that set his nerves on edge. He shook off the feeling, attributing it to the early hour and his pre-hunt excitement.

He grabbed his keys and headed out the door, the predawn air crisp and cool against his skin. His pickup truck, a sturdy beast from a bygone era, waited in the driveway. He climbed in, the leather seat creaking under his weight, and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life with a comforting rumble.

As he drove, the cityscape loomed in the distance, a mix of Brutalist concrete structures and vibrant neon lights. Billboards flickered with advertisements for corporate products, their slogans hollow promises of a better life. The radio crackled to life as he turned the dial, catching snippets of a news report.

“Tensions continue to rise between the impoverished city dwellers and the dominant corporations. Protests have escalated, leading to increased security measures. Authorities urge citizens to remain calm and stay indoors�"”

John sighed and changed the station. The familiar strains of Johnny Cash's “The Highway Man” filled the cab, a welcome distraction from the grim reality. He tapped the steering wheel in time with the music, his thoughts drifting back to simpler times, before the world had grown so complicated and oppressive.

He reached the outskirts of the city, the urban sprawl giving way to rolling hills and dense forests. The sight was both beautiful and bittersweet, a reminder of what had been lost and what still remained. He often found solace in these early morning drives, the quiet solitude a stark contrast to the bustling city life.

John parked the truck in a secluded spot, hidden from the main road by a thick stand of trees. He stepped out, the ground crunching under his boots, and began his preparations. He checked his rifle again, adjusted his gear, and set off into the woods. The forest was alive with the sounds of morning, birds chirping and leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. John moved with practiced ease, his senses attuned to the environment. Yet, that nagging feeling of unease lingered.

He found a good vantage point and settled in, scanning the area for signs of game. The tranquility of the moment was shattered by a sudden, blinding flash of light.

John's heart skipped a beat as he turned towards the city. A massive mushroom cloud was rising into the sky, its base glowing with a fiery intensity. He stood frozen, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what he was witnessing.

Instinct kicked in, and he raised his thumb to measure the size of the cloud. It was far too large, far too close. Panic surged through him as he realized the full scope of the disaster.

He scrambled to his feet and ran, adrenaline propelling him through the forest. Branches scratched at his face and arms, but he barely felt them. He had to get to his truck, had to get home.

John burst out of the trees and stumbled towards his truck, breathless and terrified. He yanked the door open and fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking. The ignition clicked but did nothing. He tried again, and again, but the truck remained lifeless.

The nuke's electromagnetic pulse had fried the electronics. John slumped back in the seat, despair washing over him. He glanced back at the city, now a smoldering ruin under the rising sun. His thoughts turned to Mary and the kids, and he felt a hollow ache in his chest.

Reviews

[JayG]

• The sun hadn't yet risen when John Wheeler's alarm clock buzzed softly, stirring him from a deep sleep.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but right here is where the rejection would come. Never, never, never, begin with the protagonist waking, unless the action begins there. And by action I don’t mean movement, I mean something more significant to the plot than an alarm clock.

• John parked the truck in a secluded spot, hidden from the main road by a thick stand of trees.

Everything before this, 524 words, more than the first two standard manuscript pages, is irrelevant detail that doesn’t meaningfully set the scene, develop character, or, move the plot. And in this line, only the first eight words matter.

• John's heart skipped a beat as he turned towards the city. A massive mushroom cloud was rising into the sky, its base glowing with a fiery intensity. He stood frozen, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what he was witnessing.

I’m sorry, but John is in the middle of the woods, surrounded by dense trees. Unless he climbs one he can see nothing but trees. So this cannot work. You next have him wanting to rush TOWARD a place that has just been bombed with an atomic weapon, without thought, so, our protagonist is an idiot.

Next, you have the truck's electronics destroyed by a “pulse” But that takes a High-altitude nuclear detonation and yours was a ground detonation that brought a “mushroom cloud.” So this doesn’t work, either.

Had your viewpoint been John’s, as against someone telling the reader a story via lecture, you 'd probably have taken that into account. But at the moment, you’re using the nonfiction skills we’re given in school, which cannot work for fiction, because verbal storytelling is a performance art, where HOW you tell the story matters as much as the words. But NONE of that performance makes the page: Not the tone in the narrator’s voice; not the changes in intensity and cadence; not the gestures, the facial expression changes; the body-language, or ANY of the performance.

My point? To write fiction you need the skills of the fiction-writer. Nothing else works. They’re not hard to acquire, though perfecting them can be frustrating. But, they’ve been refining and perfecting them for centuries, so they are NOT optional.

Unfortunately, because no one tells us, in school, that they’re giving only the skills that employers need us to have: nonfiction. And the pros make it seem so effortless that we pretty much all fall into the trap of trying to use our schoolday skills for fiction and end up right where you are, now: with the story, the desire, the perseverance, and, the wrong skill-set.

To fix that, I’d suggest starting with Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It's the best I've found to date at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. And, it's free to read or download on the Internet Archive site linked to below.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

He won’t make a pro of you. That’s your job. But he will give you the tools to do it with, if it’s in you.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow