I like to start my stories in the middle of the action. No setting descriptions. No background. No lengthy inner dialog. I just jump headlong into it and hang on to see what happens. I don’t know if this is the right way to start a story, but it appeals to me personally. When I read a beginning like that, I engage immediately. Something’s already happening, the protagonist is already in motion or in need of a critical decision.

As a sample of this approach, here’s the first chapter of my second novel, Pink Ballerina.

The panic attack starts the instant my cellphone rings. I stare at its screen, watching it flash with the call’s originator string: “Withheld.”

Not “Unlisted” or “Restricted,” but “Withheld.”

Dread swells in my chest, constricting my breathing, in that way it does when I know I should remember something but can’t. I look away from my phone and my eyes fall on the computer screen. I’m looking at four shots from the full set of shots I captured with my DSLR and a 300 mm telephoto lens in one long 51 frame burst. I should remember her, I keep telling myself as I did when I looked at her through my lens for the first time this morning. Above the slide show that repeats the four selected shots over and over I see my website’s header displaying my name in my own handwriting: “Andre Esperanza: with vision from the heart.”

I answer the phone.

More than the flashing “Withheld,” it’s her voice that undoes me. The voice of the woman whose photographs I posted on my blog an hour ago. The voice of the woman who I furtively photographed this morning at Seal Beach, dressed in a pink outfit, twirling dance moves and striking ballet poses on the hard wet sand. The voice of a woman I know I should recognize, only to have my attempts to recall her identity fall into opaque, empty slots in my memory.

In a breathy-raspy alto voice she says, “Hello, Andy. How have you been?”

“I’m sorry, who’s this?”

“So it is true, then.”

“What’s true?”

“They told me you weren’t well, that you needed space to get well. To remember.”

“What?”

The sense of dread builds up. My chest constricts, binding my lungs from taking full breaths. My heart rate quickens. I breathe in and out, my little sans Xanax self-calming technique when this feeling comes over me, but I can barely draw in any air.

As if knowing I need time to recover, she allows silence to linger for a few moments until she adds, “Just saw the new photos on your blog. They’re very nice. Very flattering. I just wish you hadn’t posted them.”

“I’m sorry. Who are you?”

She sighs and it comes across like a digital hiss. “It complicates things. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a great photographer, and you made me look very good. But I’d rather you would have kept them under wraps. Just between you and me. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“No, not really.” I’ve never been confronted by someone’s whose photos I took without their explicit permission. My thoughts swing to that. Should I apologize to her? Should I offer her free copies of the photos? Maybe a free photo session will provide sufficient compensation? Can I get a model release from her? “What did you say your name is again?”

“I didn’t. I would rather not over this channel.”

She pauses there, and I feel my dread giving way to despair.

Not over this channel.

I know where I’ve heard people talk like that, and why. My old life is coming back, except I know I’m missing a key piece of something, and whatever that something is, straining to dredge it back up increases the tension in my chest and makes me question my sanity again.

“I’m not following,” I say. “Why can’t you tell me your name?”

“You know why. You should know why, unless you’ve forgotten that too.”

Though I should, I don’t quite know what to make of that last sentence. Maybe I don’t want to face the weight of it. I know full well why someone would want to leave details out of a cellphone conversation they don’t want others to know should said cellphone find itself in a hacked and bugged state. But the forgotten part leads me to wonder. Should I know this woman? Have I forgotten her? I pride myself in a memory as photographic as any camera I own. It wouldn’t be like me to forget someone, especially an attractive member of the opposite sex. But that’s how my memory has been for the better part of two years: hit and miss, unreliable, spotted with deep, unsearchable holes.

“Let’s get together sometime and chat,” I say.

“Yes, let’s. Soon, maybe. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you back.”

“What’s your number?”

“Remember. Not over this pipe.”

“Do we know each other?”

“Come on, Andy. Not over this line.”

Now I’m the one sighing, both to communicate my frustration and in a vain attempt to exhale some of my anxiety.

“It’s good to hear your voice, Andy. God, I’ve missed talking to you, all those great conversations we used to have.”

“Glad you feel that way. Whoever you are.”

“I’m sorry, Andy. I don’t want to upset you. I’ll call you okay?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Good luck on your show, by the way. I saw the announcement on your blog. Your work is getting really strong. Passionate, visionary, evocative. What kind of photos are you exhibiting tonight?”

“Mostly black and white, sort of a cross-section of my work. Some travel, some landscape, that kind of stuff.”

“Sounds like a well-rounded exhibit. I’m so happy for you, Andy. You’re going to do great tonight.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I so wish I could be there.”

Her remark prompts a thought. “Maybe you’ll be able to come to my next show. I’m thinking it should feature some of the photos I shot today. Your photos.”

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

“I might need you to sign a model release for me. It would also be great if you were there, too. People love that, the artist and his subject, both in the same room.”

“I don’t know. I think that might be a little awkward.”

“I’m sure you’d do fine.”

Now she pauses before saying, “You’re running late for your show, and Lucia is not too happy about it. She just left you a pretty terse WTF voicemail. I’ll let you go now, OK?”

The line goes dead. “Withheld” flashes on my phone’s screen, and I stand there, staring at it, sweat spreading along my back and chest. I also note the voicemail indicator. The missed call log shows Lucia’s number. While talking to me, someone calling me from “Withheld” detected that Lucia was leaving me a voicemail message. That someone also knows the contents of the message.

As much as I try to rationalize my way into alternate explanations, this can only mean one thing.

For samples of my work, visit my Amazon author page.