Working Title, The Sod
- This is the first paragraph of what will be my East of Eden, the thing I am most proud of, the thing that some lucky publisher will get and print within the year. Publish it for goodness’ sake.
The Sod
In a little din and a little light, it was a cellar, he danced awkwardly and she danced quite well, the two together making a pair of connected arms. They connected through the hands and through the clasping clasped fingers. Although he was uncomfortable with the action of moving himself to rhythms, the situation was, on the whole, agreeable to him. They moved back and forth and in some instances around with the room to the left or right, indeed backwards and forwards also featured, but for the most part they moved together and yes he was too conscious but he was functioning in the manner appropriate to the situation. Another hearty swell of foaming lager or a little whiskey may have seen him forget himself a little further, into a haze more of himself where the consideration of self falls away, but the momentary bravado that inspired his asking her vertical in the first place had confounded itself by now. To find another sip would mean parting at this point, and parting would sever the current reward from the initial deed, betraying the previous deed, done in itself out of a harsh rush of a muck water American dribble that he had only lashed down his neck to escape the sitting and the speaking.
