I set goals every year. One of my goals this year is to get a manuscript into a publishable state. I realize that this is a monumental task so I need your help.
I want you all to hold me accountable. Ask me how it’s going. If I’m playing Zelda ask me if I’ve written yet.
This project is very important to me. I’ve been working on it with my Dad for a few years. He’s been working on it for even longer.
It’s a fictionalized version of his experiences on a Latter-day Saint mission in Central American during the 1970s.
He was one of 4 missionaries trapped in Nicaragua when civil war broke out in 1978.
The border bristled with guns as the old bus shuddered toward it. Even through multiple layers of paint, you could still read the name of the Midwest American school district it had come from a thousand miles away. Fossilized remnants of chewing gum still dotted the underside of the seats. Near the back of the bus sat Elder Andrew Skidmore with all of his worldly belongings stuffed into the two suitcases piled on the seat next to him.
The early morning sun was just starting to burn through the subtropical mist. It poured in through the half-opened windows of the bus and lit up Elder Skidmore’s hair like a sandy colored crown. The warmth had roused him from the half-aware yet profoundly deep sleep you can only get on a jittering bus. He was awake just enough to keep his glasses clad face from slamming into the seat back in front of him as the bus jerked to a stop.
As he looked around sleepily he caught the lady across the aisle broadcasting just enough polite indifference to show she was deeply curious about what this white American in a white shirt and tie was doing on the bus to Nicaragua.