Insights into unearthing a story

In my dedication in my book, Sanctuary, I mentioned Stephen King. It was his book, On Writing, that inspired me to write. He states that stories are much better unearthed, rather than created. This is the technique I used to pen Sanctuary. Every time a contrived a passages, I ended up trashing it as it was sh*t. It was was much better to put the characters in a situation and just listen. This process was so amazing. I became the audience and I couldn't wait to return the keyboard to find out what was going to happen next.

So it's one things to let the story unearth it's self, but it another to get to work on the page. I my new book, I rewrote the opening page at least 47 times. Here it is:

Losing Grip

 “Desire: When it bites, you’re powerless against the object of that desire“.

Chapter 1: Intoxication

Jason squints. Something's wrong, but he’s not sure what. His vision is blurry, like he’s looking through frosted glass. His jaw tenses, and a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. While wiping the sweat from the side of his face, he feels his hand trembling, looking like a junkie. What the hell? Testing, he closes one eye; it’s still frosted glass. He sighs. Rubbing his eyes, he catches himself grinding his teeth. The dentist told him long ago, don’t grind your teeth. He forces himself to stop. Popping his eyes open, there’s no change. Damn. One thought rattles in his brain: Am I blind? Great question. Jason sees shapes, light, but there’s no definition. He wants to scream, but he suppresses the urge. His heartbeat thumps . . . ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. C’mon dude, keep it together.  A bead of sweat trickles down to the tip of his nose. It hangs there waiting to collect enough weight to drip to the ground. He wipes it with his forearm.  

Something moves. His eyes snap, locking on a dark blob. Squinting, he tracks it moving in a straight line. Damn, I am blind. Isn’t that the way life goes? First, you’re happy and then you’re blind. “AHHHHHHHHH!” His scream echoes. Panting, he works on catching his breath. Like a defiant child, he clenches his eyelids, counting. At ten he’s going to open his lids, but he’s terrified to confirm he’s blind. Ten passes, and his eyes are zipped tight. Curiosity gets him; he’s got to know. He cracks his lids. It’s a miracle: like a photographer rotating the focus ring on a camera, everything is crystal clear. He breathes. As he exhales, all the tense is released with. His fists and shoulders relax as if a relief valve has opened. He closes his eyes, giving thanks. 

I would rewrite this in the night, or morning and come back the next day and read it, and rewrite it again. For me it just wasn't working; So then I decides to break most of it up into fragments.

Losing Grip

 Desire: It will paralyze your will, enslaving you to the object you crave, 

showing no mercy.

Chapter 1: Intoxication

Jason clenches his fists, stewing. 

Veins bulge from his neck. 

Sweat forms on his brow. 

Swiping a bead of sweat from his temple, his hands tremble.

He looks like a junkie. 

His eyes hunt, dart, looking for anything in focus, it’s like he's looking through Jello. 

A dreadful thought sneaks in: Am I blind? 

Parking his hand on his forehead, covering his eyes, clamping down, digging his fingers into his skull. 

He fights the urge to scream. 

Removing his hand from his eyes, he looks, trying to focus.

It’s still like looking through Jello. 

His jaw tightens. 

Another bead of sweat trickles down to the tip of his nose, hanging there, waiting to collect enough weight to drip to the ground.

He wipes it with his forearm. 

He’s a mess.

There’s a metallic taste in his mouth. He swallows—it’s still there.

God, I need some water.  

Something moves. 

There's a shape, or is it a shadow? It moves with precision. Tracking it reinforces the idea. 

Damn, I am blind. 

Isn’t that the way life goes? First, you’re happy, and then you’re blind. 

He erupts, “AHHHHHHHHH.” The scream is so loud, so visceral, it scares him. He spent all the air in his lungs; he pants, catching his breath. The tantrum felt good.

Like a defiant child, zipping his eyes shut, he counts—at ten—he’ll open his eyes. Ten passes. His eyes stay zipped, terrified, terrified he’s blind. Another part of him has to know. Opening his eyes. It’s a miracle, like a photographer rotating the focus ring on a camera, everything is crystal clear. His muscles relax. His shoulders droop. The tension releases like air escaping a balloon. He wants to cry; he fights the urge. 

Closing his eyes, he offers a silent thanks. 

This is what I was trying to achieve. It will most likely get tweaked a little before it gets published, but I'm so much happier with this change.