Writing the novel: Part 1

Writing this novel is very hard for me. Despite people saying I have a "unique voice" in my writing and being constantly reassured that I'm any good, I don't believe it. And it paralyzes my writing. It's why I sucked so bad at project writing and why I never tried long form fiction before. But I'm determined to finish this damn book (though I've only just started). I need to be pushed, though. So I'm asking all of you, dear friends, not to let me chicken out of this.

I'm posting what is currently the beginning of the story below. If you'd like to read more, periodically, let me know.

The story is a love story. Fiction based on the real story of how my parents met and fell in love. I thought this would be easy because they have a story tailor made for Hollywood. The problem is separating your characters from the real people...because I was not raised to imagine one's parents being affectionate and, you know, having sex. These are all important elements of a romance story.

The other challenge is I want to skip straight to the interesting part, but know I have to build the characters and the situation. Also, my journalism training makes me want to tell the entire story in 30 inches instead of 350 pages (arbitrary number — I need goals, remember).

Anyway, I'd appreciate a discussion on writing and all feedback is welcomed. Just don't tell me how much I suck because even if this is like Vogon poetry, I'd still like to finish it.
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Bernie stood on Main Street, drawing the last iota of life out of the cigarette at his lip. In his left shirt pocket he had the piece of paper that had come that morning. It was a small, unassuming piece of paper asking him in unpretentious type to please report to the Army in thirty days. Bernie knew what the little piece of paper meant to say was, please report directly to Vietnam.

To call the Air Force recruiter's office in Collins, Mississippi, an office was to stretch the truth a little. What it really was, was a cubbyhole tucked away in a building with a hardware store and a hair salon that happened to have it's own door. Main Street Collins was actually called Main Street, and all the other formula institutions of the small town South were on display there. There was a soda fountain where Bernie used to take the nickel his father gave each of the kids on Fridays and buy a malted milkshake. There was a bank that Bernie had never set foot inside. And there was a grocery store that sold giant dill pickles, pickled pigs feet, pickled quail eggs and anything else you could conceivably pickle and stick in a giant jar on the counter near the register. Kids in the big city, in Jackson, might like candy from their grocery stores, but in Collins they were still crazy for pickles.

The office into which Bernie stepped was cramped, but orderly. He didn't really look around, though, because he didn't really care. There was no choice to be made here, and neat or messy, he was in if they'd let him.

The recruiter looked up from his desk and nodded. Bernie took this for a welcome and didn't bother with small talk. He took the paper from his pocket and presented it to the recruiter along with these words: "Look, I just got this draft notice. Can I still join the Air Force?"

The recruiter stood up, ignored the piece of paper and answered, "Yes sir, you can."

Bernie signed up on the spot.

Afterward, as he walked back to his car, Bernie didn't do a lot of soul searching. He wasn't one to reflect on his feelings and to be honest, at this moment, he didn't have any. As a poor, high school drop out from the country, he didn't have a lot of options open to him. He knew enlisting in the Air Force was his best chance. He wasn't stupid. He was actually quite smart. Good at math, strong grades when he was in school, good with his hands. He was satisfied with what he had done. He could still go to Vietnam, he knew that. But it was much less certain.

There were still some signs of Christmas lingering about Main Street. But the short-lived glow of the holiday had clearly warn off for most in town. Too many people were gone. Not all to Vietnam. One of Bernie's best friends, who had enlisted, was sent to Italy. But most were in Vietnam. Another friend, Tommy, who had also enlisted was there. He'd already been shot. Both boys, who were younger than Bernie, had enlisted out of small town boredom. They had all three dropped out of high school (Bernie years earlier than the other two) and were running around town, not doing much of anything at all. Bernie had decided, boredom was one thing. Dead was another. He chose boredom. But the other came gunning for him anyway.

It was a hell of a way to start a new year. 1962.