First Paragraph- Checkerboard Lawns

I’ve always wanted to be a writer and I’ve always wanted to write a book. I’m just not sure I have the patience for it. I’ve heard tales of great writers who spend an entire day on one paragraph. Or hours on one sentence. Meanwhile, I feel like a pit crew at Indy trying to get my prose on the race track as quickly as possible. I’ve started many works of fiction over the years and rarely get past the first couple of pages. It takes time for a story to develop; time that I’m not sure I want to invest. Possibly it’s the fear of failure. Possibly it’s a lack of knowledge on how to develop a story. Possibly it’s a lack of talent. Possibly it’s just my extreme lack of patience in general. Whatever the reason, I stall before I ever have the satisfaction of writing “Chapter 2” at the top of the page. Whereas most writers have trouble starting a story, I have trouble with everything but the start. Therefore, I will have a recurring post to this blog called First Paragraph. First Paragraph will be the beginning words of all the ideas I have for a book. First Paragraph will be the beginning of everything and then end of nothing. Without further ado, I give you the first installment of First Paragraph.

CHECKERBOARD LAWNS

The first lawn turned brown in the spring of 2008. Most of us didn’t even notice. Why would we, we had yet to been trained that lawn color was an indicator of financial security. Those who did notice figured the Lawsons had just forgotten to turn the water on after a rainy February. But even the observant couldn’t recall the last time they had seen the Lawsons. By May For Sale signs had popped up like zits on a teenager. Mission Springs Community had developed a serious case of real estate acne. By July the lawns of Tennyson Street were a brown and green checkerboard pattern. Brown lawns had become a modern day easy mark for squatters and the vacancy was seemingly endless. By September new faces had started to appear. Our smiles welcomed them to the neighborhood, but our hearts bred contempt for their part in our declining home value. We despised them for their low mortgage balances; our only comfort in knowing we’d pilfered from them before they had a chance to move in. We shook our heads when asked why there were holes where ceiling fans once thrived. We shrugged when they pondered why all of the hardware had been removed from their top end cabinets. Our only satisfaction was in making their purchases from the bank as incomplete as possible. For what is more frustrating, stealing both shoes or stealing only one? By December the lawns had all turned green again. We convinced ourselves the worst was behind us, but what the rain had temporarily hidden, time was about to expose.