The Editor speaks loudly. Despite the goal of writing, writing, writing. Another draft of the first page, then I say to the Editor, “Back off!” I learn through practise, through the act of writing and I will return to that, but first:
A faded bus wound through blue mountain roadways. The rhythm of the rocking bus lulled passengers into a half-sleep, as the sun floated between slate clouds.
Mo looked through the bus window. She saw her reflection: a ghost superimposed on the passing forest.
Her mother had been dead 6 months. She had left New York. She hoped to leave all but her inheritance, as she made her way south.
The bus took her down along highways and roads, tributaries leading closer to some alternate future, some alternate state.
She stared out of the window, watching for something to stand out in the deep green wash of trees. She saw her face, quivering in the glass.