Sense of Place?

Occasionally I get asked writer questions. How to create opening paragraphs? What is a sense of place? How to move the plot forward? Legitimate questions -- that I don't do a very good job of answering. Today I present three short excerpts from three different books I've written. Do the excerpts answer any of the questions? I doubt it, but it's what I got today.

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THE BALLAD OF ROCKY RUIZ (1993)

Opening lines of Part One

Ojitos bonitos

Que me estan acabando

Ojitos bonitos

Que me estan matando

                        Ay Ojitos

I don't recall all the subtleties and particulars and some of the events are screwed up in my head -- out of sequence, out of synch.  Hell, there were too many late nights and fuzzy mornings, and even back then I had a hard time keeping it straight.  Life had this rough texture, like Velcro on a screen door.  But there is one detail that stands out in my mind as clearly as if I was staring at her this minute, across the room, waiting for her to finish taking off her clothes.  Those eyes -- the round, moist, glowing brown eyes that will haunt me as sure as la llorona prowls dark alleys looking for bad children; eyes tht will stay with me until Chicanos reclaim their lost land of Aztlán -- forever.  There are days when I look over my shoulder and I catch them watching me, driving me up the wall, chilling my skin, making me forget every other woman I knew or met or loved.  I know those eyes.

And the blood.  I remember the blood....

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BLUES FOR THE BUFFALO (1997)

Opening lines of Chapter 1

“What an ugly scar.”

I opened my eyes into the brilliant Mexican sun. The details of her face were masked in a numbing combination of light and more light created by the sun and the white beach that curved against the turquoise lagoon.

“It must have hurt.”

I shielded my eyes with the flat of my hand. Her skin recalled the café con leche I had nursed at breakfast. She wore a white two-piece swimsuit that was less than a bikini and she looked hot and sweaty.

“It hurt like hell. I was in the hospital for weeks. I still limp.”

I raised a beer to my lips. My empty hand slipped from the handle of the cooler and grazed the hot sand and recoiled automatically. Her feet were naked, exposed to the sand.

“Is the bullet still in your knee?”

I did not ask how she knew it was a bullet wound. Maybe it was obvious.

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DESPERADO: A MILE HIGH NOIR (2012)

Second part of the Prologue

Summer in the city.  For a few, living came easy.  For others, living ended.

I moved to familiar rhythms embedded in memories of days that stretched forever and nights filled with promise.  I executed rituals meant to define my existence.  I hoped for one more grand time, one more forever.  But the sun drove parasites and pests from the shadows and exposed the limits of my hope.

Dry winds rolled in from the mountains and whipped up dust devils on the horizon.  Urban grasses and flowers yellowed in the heat.  Aged elms and oaks bowed to thirst.  When the dog days arrived, monsoon rains filled gutters and drains but failed to clean the city, or me.  I struggled like a fish trapped in a net.  I searched for a way out, an escape....

Later.

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Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. Read his latest story, Northside Nocturne, in the award-winning anthology Denver Noir, edited by Cynthia Swanson, published by Akashic Books.