Lost and Found – a Novel by Ron Rink

I have a rather nutty idea. I haven’t a clue if this will work, but here’s what I’m thinking.

Several years ago, I started to write a novel based on my youth. It was to be titled, “Lost and Found”. Here’s the cover I had planned for the book if it were ever to be published.

I wrote feverishly for almost a year and a half, and then hit a brick wall. The writing came to a screeching halt. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with the next phase of my life upon which the book is based — and I just didn’t want to go back and relive those times. Perhaps the writing ceased because my personal circumstances at the time I stopped writing, were in great turmoil. I don’t know.

So, here’s what I’m thinking and would love to get some feedback from the very few people who are reading this …

… I thought I would begin to post what I have already written in serial format in this blog. If I was attracting some folks who wanted to read what I had to write, it might just give me the kick in the butt I need to finish this book.

I’m also at a place in my life now where I feel if I don’t find some way to motivate myself beyond this block, and do it soon, the book will never get written.

I’m sort of at a place where I’m not thinking about ever trying to get published — that’s not what would drive me now. It’s more about finishing the story. There’s so much more yet to tell, and I’m the only one who knows how it turns out.

Finishing the story only makes sense if someone wants to read it.

So, what do you think? Does it make any sense? If you liked the writing would you help me find more readers who wanted to read this book?

Let me know your thoughts.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron
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Here’s a portion of the Prologue to the book.

I hated the attic. It smelled—some kind of rotten smell like something had died. Most of the time I never noticed the smell, but that afternoon it was especially bad.

The guys at the Sugar Bowl—the confectionery store where my gang hung out—were going to get some grass, and I wanted some for myself. I’d been setting pins at the bowling alley and doing odd jobs at the racetrack, but I didn’t have enough money to pay for the marijuana. I had some, probably more than most kids who were eleven years old, but still not enough.

Luckily, the boss at the bowling alley paid us in cash and I was able to keep some out of the money I had to give to my parents. They didn’t know about my work at the racetrack, so I was able to keep all that money. The only other way I could put together enough money for grass was to steal it.

That’s why I was in this terrible attic.

The gang I belonged to always wore black jackets with “SFD” on the back and a skull and crossbones emblem sewn on over the letters. We wore peg pants, and kept our shirt and jacket collars turned up in back. Everyone knew we were the toughest gang on the east side of Detroit. We were known as the “State Fair Dukes”, because the Sugar Bowl store is on the street called State Fair, plus our neighborhood was close to the State Fairgrounds. The girls that hung out with us were “The Duchesses”.

I wore my hair a lot longer than my parents wanted. All of the Dukes wore their hair long with a ducktail cut in the back. I was bigger than most kids my age, and getting the hang of looking tough came easy. One of my friends was teaching me how to be a good street fighter. I was learning to walk tough—not a swagger exactly—more of a way of swinging my shoulders and hips that let people know I could take care of myself. If I smiled at all, it was only a quick here-and-gone twitch of the lips. The whole image was part of “being bad, man!”

I couldn’t wear gang clothes at home. So, every day when I left for school, I’d wear what my parents allowed me to wear, which was usually a pair of overalls and a shirt or sweater. Then I’d go to a friend’s house on the way to school and change clothes. I kept a couple pairs of peg pants, a couple shirts and one of our gang jackets at his house. I also had an extra pair of shoes called “stompers”. They were heavy leather shoes with wide toes. The idea was that if you got somebody down on the ground during a fight, those shoes would do a good job of kicking because of the wide toe. I put cleats on the heels so I’d have that neat “click-click” when I walked. It was cool. I even had a pocket-watch chain to wear with the peg pants.

Since there was no way I could ever come up with the money I needed for the marijuana on my own, I was hoping my parents would have some money stashed away somewhere in the house. I’d searched through all their drawers and stuff downstairs but I didn’t find any. The only other place to look was in the attic.

The sweat was pouring off me it was so hot. I raised the shade and opened the window but I still felt like I was suffocating. I didn’t like it up there at all. It was a devil’s den.
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