God, I hate starting a new writing project - I'm not a notecard kind of guy, so I try to pull together the whole thing in my head - developing plot points, fleshing out characters, establishing narrative peaks. Oh, I do write stuff down, but I'm not organized enough to do a detailed outline. Julian May once said that she does a very detailed outline, then does one draft - just one draft.  Ha! As if.

My last novel was a straight mystery.  This one might be a little more adventurous. Same era, 1952; same setting, Oregon High Desert; same protagonist; Sheriff Matthew Harkness, but with more added punch - maybe Commie hunting FBI agents and flying saucers.  Then again, maybe not. Where I begin and where I end in my writing often are two widely disparate places.  When I revise, especially from first draft to second, it's usually not just a word here or there, but massive changes in direction Here's a sample of the second scene of a very rough Chapter 1.

<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style>--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">I squinted up against the slanting late afternoon sunlight and meandered down Main Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>The old, lame and diseased sat in rocking chairs on the covered portico that fronted the south side of the Ochoco Inn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>It almost being the weekend, those poor folks had come into town from all over the state, seeking the healing touch of our local faith healer, Jessica Love. Among them, were a couple of locals, Prometheus Hawthorne and some old fart I’d seen before, but couldn’t name. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Theus hailed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>“Sheriff, come and meet my grandfather.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Sisyphus Jones, I presume.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">The old man glanced at me with flint eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>“You’re not as funny a feller as you think you are,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Some people like my humor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“His name is Hank.” Theus spit a brown glob of tobacco off the porch and onto the pine board sidewalk. “Grandpa was telling me about the time he met Wyatt Earp down in Arizona.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“So you were around when the Earps shot it out with the Clanton gang?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Gunned them down, more like.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>The old man’s face was like scarred up leather, brown and broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>“It wasn’t much of a fair fight.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“No need to fight fair when your life is on the line.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Gramps is here to see Jessie Love and get healed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Rheumatism,” the old man added.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">As we chatted, Ed Dilkes sidled up to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>He poked me in the ribs with a finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>“Here tell we’ve got reports of flying saucers.” Dilkes was the editor and publisher of the local newspaper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>I’d deck a lesser man for that. Dilkes was a pesky man, but one with a certain moral compass. I admired him for that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Pardon the interruption, boys,” I said. “but Mr.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>Dilkes has no sense of couth.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Don’t know a newspaper man worth his salt that does,” Dilkes said. “Now about them saucers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">I grabbed Dilkes by the elbow and steered him away from the Joneses. “You’re crazy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“And federal agents are poking around, looking for little green men.” Dilkes was a narrow-faced man with a blue-black beard and rapid-fire east coast speech.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sometime the best lie is the grand lie.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Dilkes rubbed his palms together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>“Feds and flying saucers, gosh, this is going to be a great story.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“If you didn’t have three kids and a pretty wife, I’d wring your scrawny neck.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>He hadn’t tumbled to the commie list yet, but knowing Dilkes, he would sooner than later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“You remember when they had those saucer sightings up in Portland?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>’47, I think it was.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>A steno pad and pencil appeared in his hands.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“I was still down in Frisco back then,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Bunch of folks saw them flying over Oaks Park, including a couple of policemen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>All over the Oregonian for weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>Government said it was weather balloons.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“I am skeptical of everything, but dismiss nothing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Me too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>How about an exclusive.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“How ‘bout an exclusive kick in the ass.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Dilkes laughed. “You still on the wagon?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“What does that have to do with the price of ‘tators?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“I’m just watching out for you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“I watch out for myself, thank you all the same.” I lit up a cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>The smoke felt good in my lungs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“There’s a meeting of folks trying to stay sober down at the Community Church on Wednesday nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>You’d be welcome if you decided to poke your head in.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Not much of a church-going sort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>Mother was, a brimstone Baptist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>We’d go to church, then when we got home, she’d whip me with a strap, just ‘cause.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Dilkes was smart enough not to ask, but he did anyway. “’Cause?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Cause she could, ‘cause my old man up and died when I was eight. ‘Cause she was a mean bitch. ‘Cause I have no fucking idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>That enough?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Don’t have to get sore about it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Ain’t sore at you, Ed, but the whole thing left me sore at the world.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Door’s always open.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">“Appreciate that,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>We parted with a handshake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>I meandered by Doc Silverman’s office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>He’d told me once that he had been a Commie back before the War. Him, being one of my few true friends in this county, I thought I’d tell him about the FBI on their witch-hunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>He wasn’t there, so I decided to drop by the high school and palaver with the science teacher, Malgauss. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t too partial to commies, but I was less partial to G-men stirring up problems in my county.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Comments?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></div>