In case you're wondering what this is all about, I decided to post a novel of mine, Change Running, online. Each chapter will be published in its own blog post; there are 73 or so chapters in total, but each is very short. Except for Sundays, I'll post a new chapter each day.

If you do choose to read it regulary, I sincerely hope that you enjoy every word. One of my goals in life is to make a living as a published author; with the power and ingenuity of sites like Blogfeast, Soulcast, or Senserely, I don't have to submit manuscripts to big-name publishers in order to reach an audience and profit. Sure, it's a bit far-fetched to say that I'll be able to make a living off of people clicking advertisements on pages like these, but each chapter is a step in that direction.

At any rate, whether you choose to read or not, thanks for dropping in!

1. Rick
The stone tile shook with the pounding of his boots, their metallic ring vibrating across the halls, the floors, the windows. He hummed a soft tune in his head, focusing more on the guidance of it than its own gain to him; caring more about the path of a track than the track itself and simply hopping on for the ride.


He was confident, some would say. Confident, at least, in his abilities, whether or not they were of any importance. Others said he was rash. Still others found he was in his own place, reaching faintly out through conversation at dinner parties where he felt cramped, as if the waiter had seated him under the table and he was never in touch, let alone comfortable. Thoughts such as these whistled through his head as he whistled his own tune, looking out towards the trees, the grass, and back inside.


He needed a typewriter. That was what he needed. A good, old-fashioned means of conveying words, not one of those newfangled technological devices. Oh, he had plenty of technology; he just simply didn’t always go the path. Doubted, some would say. No. He didn’t doubt. Wouldn’t doubt if his life depended on it. He was a man who didn’t enjoy going the same way. Wanted to puncture the lining of society and discover what had been forgotten once the followers had moved out of the way. Not necessarily a radical change agent. Just an agent by himself, seeing his own images, thinking his own thoughts.
The door was just down the hall; he could see its faint mahogany brown polished lovingly with all the paint he could find at the local hardware store. Neighboring it, and making up all the other doors in the building were stark, metal doors. Dependable objects; not wanting to make a scene, but instead exposing themselves without any further thought and simply doing their jobs: to open and close at the twist of a wrist. Doors here didn’t ask any questions. They sat back to let the important things in life pass through.


His was metal as well. He had painted it over with layer upon layer until the change started to sink in and it accepted that it wanted to be something else in a conforming society. He had hated that term, though. Sung sullenly out of the lips of his enemies. Trying to portray him as a radical, soulless person only there to add a different perspective. Their metal, like their doors, shone with ease off of their polished foreheads, not hiding anything on the passage to their cookie-cutter brains. He despised such a thought, to be the same, to be just another person. But at the same time he couldn’t be too fast. Too rigid in his intentions to become flexible. At heart it was peace he was looking for, but wished as well to add some things on to it, to carry other items onto the bandwagon. And it would keep going, until it made its dent, whether on its side, wheels spinning, or successful in its task. Trains. They were metal, too. Unless you looked outside the box.


He was at the door now. The whistling stopped and his hand turned the knob- polished wood, set in on a whim one night as he pried the old metal doorknob out with a screwdriver and installed his own model. He was young back then, when they thought he was simply a crazy one wanting to make an impression. It wasn’t until later that they learned he was multifaceted, just like them, except capable of divergent thought when they all converged on the same solution. Some would call it gifted. Mostly mothers trying to explain why their child was failing school. All mothers have excuses. He never failed a single class. It was the teachers who had failed him. The ones who, over the years, coated him with someone he wasn’t, trying to paint over his true insides. Metal over wood. It worked until they realized he could melt it all off whenever, simply hiding under what they wanted while they smiled at their own intellect. It wasn’t their fault. They were simply afraid. Afraid if they would otherwise churn out a bum on the streets drinking beer and singing about things causing mothers to clap their convergent-thinking hands on their children’s convergent-thinking ears and avoiding traffic along the way. Not their fault, either. Just afraid. Afraid of traffic. Afraid of bums.
He turned the knob.


If you enjoy my writing, you can also go ahead and just order the book. It's hosted on a nifty self-publishing site, Lulu.com, and costs five dollars for a downloaded copy. http://www.lulu.com/content/443070