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>But with that gauntlet lying there mocking me, I had >to write something. *G* > >I've not been happy with my story for a while. I >liked certain parts of it, but as a whole it just >didn't feel right. Something was missing, something >was off, and I couldn't figure out what it was. So I >walked away from it. Every time I tried to come back >to it, I couldn't write a word. Nothing. I ><i>couldn't,</i> no matter how I tried, and I got very >discouraged. > >Just when I was at the end of my rope, Jay Carey began >talking to me again. He told me what was wrong, and >though I thought he was full of it, I listened to him. > And after I listened, I re-read what I had written. >Jay was right. I mean, he should know, after all. >It's his story. Right about this time, Debi threw >down the gauntlet, and I started trying to write >again. The first few efforts were rubbish, but I >finally fell into that hole in the monitor, and ended >up in London in 1968 again. Here's what I saw: > >Excerpt from working title <i>Carey On</i> >©2009 by Juli Morgan >Posted for purposes of critique only, and does not >constitue publication > >Sheets of rain cascaded from the tattered green awning >as Katie Scott stepped out of the shop on a narrow >street in London, her arrival on the sidewalk >announced by the merry sound of bells. Amused, she >glanced back at the large string of brass jingle >bells, visible through the shop’s glass door. Such a >joyous racket should announce a person of great >importance, or well-known celebrity; it seemed a bit >overdone for an American girl who’d just purchased her >first pair of authentic British “wellies.” Pulling >the hood of her vinyl jacket up over her head, Katie >checked for oncoming traffic before splashing across >the street, her new boots throwing up sheets of water >with each step she took. She grinned, delighted as a >child at splashing through the rain. True, she hadn’t >enjoyed it much before she’d bought the wellies. The >suede leather fringed moccasin boots she’d been >wearing were now residing in a soggy wad in one of the >many deep pockets of the duffel bag slung over her >shoulder. Spying a large puddle on the sidewalk, >Katie gave it a good stomp in tribute to her favorite >footwear that were, in all probability, now ruined. > >Laughing under her breath, she continued splashing >along the sidewalk, ignoring the amused stares of the >people she passed. She was feeling punch-drunk, the >result of a massive case of jet-lag, and decided to >enjoy it before her natural reticence returned. >Besides, she was overjoyed to finally be in London. > >Stories about swinging London, the Mod scene, and the >influx of British music into America had intrigued >Katie for years, and her meeting with Jimi Hendrix had >increased her desire to visit that fascinating city. >She’d been introduced to the flamboyant guitarist at >the Monterey International Pop Festival, and had ended >up taking him home with her. During Jimi’s time in >San Fransisco, he’d held Katie spellbound with his >descriptions of his adopted neighborhood of Ladbroke >Grove, telling her it was “just like Haight-Ashbury, >only better.” After his departure, Katie began making >plans to jump the pond and find out first-hand if all >his stories were true. The death of her father just >after Christmas, however, curtailed her plans. > > After six months of seeing to her father’s affairs >in her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, Katie had >returned to San Fransisco, disappointed in the changes >that had taken place in her absence. The Summer of >Love had ended, leaving behind an invasion of young >people looking for the utopia they’d heard was in >Haight-Ashbury. With them had come the hucksters, the >crooks, and the curious, turning the bohemian >neighborhood Katie loved into a teeming circus, full >of junkies lying in the gutter, a rash of overdoses on >bad drugs, and corners full of lost people looking for >a handout. Viewing all this through the windows of >her crumbling Victorian on Page Street, Katie once >again felt the pull of London. > >It had taken her almost a year to tidy up her >obligations in the States, but with the final >settlement of her father’s estate, and her belongings >in safe hands with her Aunt Peggy, Katie had gotten >her passport, packed what she could in her duffel bag, >grabbed her guitar and jumped on a plane headed for >merry old England.
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