How moonshine nearly killed the book

Here’s the thing, I’m not real smart. I compensate with Google. I’m writing a book about the human condition after a catastrophic event and the will to survive. Very high falootin’. I’ve taken a small town, cut it off both physically and communicatively from the rest of the world, and then sat back and documented the events as well as I’m able. Remember it’s a first draft.

So I’ve got these poor people surviving in a difficult situation without the aid of most modern conveniences, electricity, running water, sewers, garbage collection. Believe me, I’m not interested in writing a story about Filthytown with trash, poop, and other fluids slopping around any more than you’re interested in reading it. Yet, my short comings as a storyteller sometimes lead to surprising results.

Case in point, Calvin and Tim Tooley. Two brothers that own the only surviving farm in the small confined area. Calvin, the responsible one, is pissed that Tim spends his time snitching from the limited, and therefore much valued, corn stores on their farm to turn into alcohol using their grandfather’s old still. Tim loves the moonshine. So much that I figured it behooved me to find out how the hell one goes about making moonshine from corn. I hopped on the Google, and imagine my surprise to learn that corn-based moonshine is, in simplified terms so I can understand it, ethanol.

Yup, making and drinking ethanol has been around since, I assume, the pilgrims grew their first corn crop and cooked up a batch for the first Thanksgiving. Problem is in this little story of mine, they don’t have access to fuel; therefore, they’ve not been able to run generators for electricity, or, and this is the killer, drive to someplace better. What’s more, making ethanol is rather easy.

Time to expand my story’s worldview. I suppose this is a good obstacle to have sooner than later.

15 minutes. Time.

95 days remaining (2257:43:18)

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One Response to “How moonshine nearly killed the book”

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