Devise Outside the Lines: The Penumbral Network

Writing is one of those things that’s hardwired into me. It sits just below oxygen and water in terms of what I need to survive. I wrote my first book when I was 6 years old by dictating it to my mom. I illustrated it and “published” it by making color copies down at the local print store. It was about a coyote who stayed up all night chasing the moon, met some other animals along the way, and eventually abandoned his quest and went to sleep. Powerful stuff.

After some 36 more years, I finally set out to write another book. Like, a real one.

I recently hit a decently significant milestone: 100,000 words. This has given me the confidence that, unlike my childhood canine protagonist, I may actually achieve my goal. The book is titled The Penumbral Network and it's part fantasy, part sci-fi, part cyberpunk. Fanta-sci-berpunk. If The Matrix and His Dark Materials had a baby, that gets you close.

Anyway, as much as it freaks me out, I’d like to share an excerpt here. It’s the opening to the first chapter and it probably reads like none of the aforementioned genres, so you’ll just have to trust me — the story gets there eventually.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.

The Penumbral Network - Chapter 1 Excerpt

Unless very low on fuel, one could happily ignore the single exit for Riverbend, Oregon. The town was a liminal space between origins and destinations, rarely serving as either. And yet at 7 P.M. on an otherwise normal evening in June, Tara Ashwood found herself in the back seat of her grandparents’ Buick, still with over half a tank of gas, veering away from the highway on that very exit ramp.

Her grandmother lit a cigarette and blew a laminar stream of smoke out the cracked passenger window. Margie had tried to kick the habit several times, but given recent circumstances, it would likely now follow her to the grave. Grandpa Clifford reminded her that the air-conditioning worked better with the windows closed. Margie put out the cigarette and rolled up the window; they were almost home, anyway.

Tara squinted as the sun glared at her in the rearview mirror. It would be nearly two more hours before it set. Her grandfather liked to brag about how deceptively north Riverbend was. That if you had a mind to, you could keep heading straight and eventually end up in Toronto. Canada isn’t only north, but east of here. Doesn’t that just jumble your marbles?

It did, when Tara was younger. Once, her grandparents came to visit her in California and Clifford gave her a map. He pointed out Riverbend and she drew a line with her finger eastward, tracing the Columbia River until it broke north into Washington. Her fingertip pushed on, imaginary step by imaginary step, for thousands of miles, rubbing over Idaho, Montana, the Dakotas, Minnesota, Wisconsin, the tip of Michigan and, finally, the dangling toe of Ontario. They all might have been made-up places then, like points of interest on a map in the opening pages of a fantasy novel.

The Buick crossed through downtown Riverbend — blink and you’ll miss it — and up into a neighborhood called Grandview that was anything but. They pulled into a driveway at the end of a cul-de-sac and Tara tugged off her headphones and stuffed her Walkman into a black messenger bag. It barely fit, full as the bag was with faded paperbacks and half-empty sketchbooks. She swiveled out of the back seat onto her tingling feet and instinctively stretched her back, arms.

The rest of her stuff had already arrived on a moving truck, alongside what she kept of her mother’s things. She was the last piece.

Grandma Margie showed Tara to her room. Brown high pile, off-white walls. It was too early to sleep, but Tara decided to lie down anyway. She didn’t need to change. The appropriate outfit for a 12-hour drive was the same as for bed: baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.

She stared at the crumbles on the ceiling. This is home now. Home, she repeated. Home.

Maybe one day she’d believe it.