>What ever happened with your writing? I started reading a new book today (not new, but new to me) and two of the characters have the same names as in my book. One even has the same job. :( Now I have to find another name that will be suitable for those two... :(

I too have found that a number of authors (Plagiarists more to the point) have stolen many of my best ideas, and in annoying bursts of farsightedness, stole them even before I had them.

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>>I should probably find some writers' group to post this on but I trust the people here. This is more than a bunch of gearheads with a similar technical calling, as came out loud and clear a couple of weeks ago. It's a community in the best sense of the word. I want your honest feedback. Really. Don't be afraid to offend me if you don't like what I am posting. I would rather hear it up front than waste months going down the wrong path.
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>>So here goes. I have mentioned that I have considered a radical career change. I probably didn't mention that the career I have in mind is writing. This is something I have been dabbling with for a while with generally abysmal results. Like a pro golfer's 7 iron onto the green, it's harder than it looks. So here goes. Today I wrote, rewrote, scratched, added, deleted, and wound up with two paragraphs I think are keepers. These are the current opening paragraphs of what I hope to be my first published novel. Please give me your honest feedback, publicly or privately. Thank you for reading!
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>>If you notice more than a passing resemblance to Graham Greene, it is not accidental. I should be so lucky. It happens that one of his best books opens in a graveyard.
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>>Mike
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>>On the day Charlie Hess was put in the ground his new widow, Lucinda, dressed in black with a twist. Underneath the trim black Armani suit Charlie bought her after a big score she wore a hot pink garter belt. Per ounce it probably cost more than cocaine. It looked great on her, a view only Charlie had enjoyed. This was the last time she would wear it.
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>>A couple hundred yards away George Fisk surveyed the burial as inconspicuously as he could. A cemetery is a good place to go unnoticed. Speaking into a microphone near his shoulder, he took note of who arrived and with whom. Periodically he pretended to pay his respects at the nearest headstone. “Gladys Phillips. 1943 – 2005. Beloved Mother.” He idly wondered who she was and what she meant to those who paid for her gravestone.