Behind the Writing: Chapter 1, Notice of Assignment
Where my life's experiences meet the fiction of Cal Brink.
Today I’m going to let you inside how my mind was working as I wrote the first eleven-hundred and twenty-four words of Notice of Assignment. Well, how I wrote, re-wrote, edited and wrote again the first chapter. Please note: this is not the entire first chapter.
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Chapter 1 (first two-thirds)
Friday, August 13, 2010
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? We’re just about to sign on a house as an investment. That’s a big deal.”
That was Shawna. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady. Which was usually worse.
She had every right to ask.
For the first time in a long time, life had quit leaning on us with its full weight. The collection calls had stopped. She wasn’t standing in the kitchen doing math out loud, trying to figure out whether we had enough for groceries and gas in the same week. We had a little cushion. Not real wealth. Not security that could survive stupidity. But enough to exhale a little.
And there I was about to put some of it at risk.
Shawna had always been drawn to the part of me that liked motion. Adventure if you were being generous. Recklessness if you weren’t. She married a man who believed the next deal might fix everything. After a few rounds of real life, that quality probably looked less romantic than it had at the beginning.
I glanced over at her and thought, not for the first time, how strange it is that lust can turn into loyalty if you give it enough years. Her auburn hair got me first. Then her laugh. Then the smile. Then the way she looked at me like I might actually become the guy I kept saying I was going to be.
She came from southern Missouri. Ozark fringe. I came from suburbia. Planned, scrubbed, tidy suburbia. The kind of place Walt Disney later built as a theme park. I started mowing yards when I was ten.
My first lesson in capitalism. Push a mower for an hour in the Kansas heat, get paid, bike down to Bear’s Records, and turn sweat into vinyl. That seemed like a fair system to me. Still does, mostly.
The title company office had all the usual local-pride décor on the walls. Kansas City history in safe frames for safe people. Pendergast. Brush Creek. The radio tower. George Brett in Yankee Stadium, frozen forever in that clean swing of his. Even Walt was there, done up in black and white like he’d personally invented Midwestern respectability.
I studied the photos while the minute hand on the oversized clock inched forward.
They were good pictures. Crafted. Intentional. The kind made by people who cared about light and composition.
Not like the pictures I used to take.
Mine had usually been quick and grainy and taken for a reason nobody enjoyed. My photos accused people.
“Brett hit .305 for his career,” I said. “Failed plenty and still made the Hall of Fame.”
Shawna didn’t even look at the wall. “You’re not playing baseball. This is our money. The little money we have.”
That was Shawna in one sentence. No wasted motion. She could also see possible consequences that I would never consider. I guessed it had something to do with the harder upbringing. Being out there in the middle of nowhere, a fifty-minute bus ride to a school in another county.
She wasn’t wrong. We’d been married for twenty-four years and only recently gotten to where a bad month didn’t automatically become a crisis. I saw leverage. She saw exposure. I saw a chance to move up. She saw a chance to slide backward.
That’s marriage. Same facts. Different blood pressure.
To get the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment, visit CalBrink.com.
Behind the Writing
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? We’re just about to sign on a house as an investment. That’s a big deal.”
That was Shawna. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady. Which was usually worse.
I made a conscious decision to not start with our protagonist, Cal Brink. I started with his conscious, his compass, his wife, Shawna Brink. Throughout the novella, we will learn how Cal thinks.
But Shawna is his compass. She will have great influence and insight.
She had every right to ask.
For the first time in a long time, life had quit leaning on us with its full weight. The collection calls had stopped. She wasn’t standing in the kitchen doing math out loud, trying to figure out whether we had enough for groceries and gas in the same week. We had a little cushion. Not real wealth. Not security that could survive stupidity. But enough to exhale a little.
And there I was about to put some of it at risk.
Shawna had always been drawn to the part of me that liked motion. Adventure if you were being generous. Recklessness if you weren’t. She married a man who believed the next deal might fix everything. After a few rounds of real life, that quality probably looked less romantic than it had at the beginning.
Throughout this debut novella you will find a gray area where truth meets fiction. I’m not shy about saying that our story, my wife and me, is written throughout this book. The Great Recession caused a lot of financial stress across our nation. Couples broke up. We got closer. Maybe it’s because for the type of real estate I was specializing in, real estate investing and property management, the Great Recession turned into a boon.
Well, at least after an initial, painful drop of real estate sales income to the tune of 30%, more or less.
I glanced over at her and thought, not for the first time, how strange it is that lust can turn into loyalty if you give it enough years. Her auburn hair got me first. Then her laugh. Then the smile. Then the way she looked at me like I might actually become the guy I kept saying I was going to be.
She came from southern Missouri. Ozark fringe. I came from suburbia. Planned, scrubbed, tidy suburbia. The kind of place Walt Disney later built as a theme park. I started mowing yards when I was ten.
That’s it. That’s the origin story for my wife and me. I met her in my house. I came home and there was a party going on. It was college. This wasn’t unusual. She was dancing with some guy. I was smitten.
When I met her she was attending a university about fifteen miles from where I was attending the University of Kansas. Or, at least I was enrolled. Her home was down in the Ozarks area, about and hour’s drive east of Springfield, MO.
I grew up in Overland Park, KS. Curated. Manicured.
“…how strange it is that lust can turn into loyalty if you give it enough years.”
I want to be clear that this is our marriage. The physicality of love is real and a very good thing. It’s also true that the chemical attraction needs something more. A glue, if you will. Respect, common interests and two people feeling a personal responsibility are the ingredients that form that glue.
My first lesson in capitalism. Push a mower for an hour in the Kansas heat, get paid, bike down to Bear’s Records, and turn sweat into vinyl. That seemed like a fair system to me. Still does, mostly.
I started young. My first income came from delivering the Overland Park Sun newspaper. The system went that I delivered the paper on the doorsteps of my neighborhood for free. Then I’d go door-to-door once a month and try to collect. I got to keep a portion of what I collected.
Then, at about ten, I’d use our family’s lawnmower, and my dad’s gas, and went door to door asking if I could mow their lawn for whatever they’d pay. Turns out five dollars was the usual amount.
Then I’d make my way to a record store at 95th and Antioch using my bicycle. When I returned, I’d have a new record album by whatever band caught my attention: The Beach Boys, REO Speedwagon, Rolling Stones.
The record shop also had all these really pretty glass pipes and cylindrical gadgets. At ten to twelve years old I didn’t really understand. I was there for the records that were sold below value. I’d learn more about this later.
The title company office had all the usual local-pride décor on the walls. Kansas City history in safe frames for safe people. Pendergast. Brush Creek. The radio tower. George Brett in Yankee Stadium, frozen forever in that clean swing of his. Even Walt was there, done up in black and white like he’d personally invented Midwestern respectability.
I studied the photos while the minute hand on the oversized clock inched forward.
They were good pictures. Crafted. Intentional. The kind made by people who cared about light and composition.
Not like the pictures I used to take.
Mine had usually been quick and grainy and taken for a reason nobody enjoyed. My photos accused people.
Title companies have closing offices that celebrate the local community. That’s their deal. They are facilitating the people getting their slice of the American dream. The pictures are less personal and more like marketing for the city you are about to spend your life in.
In truth, my life as an investigator included learning how to take pictures of people doing things they maybe shouldn’t be doing, from long distance and often in low light. I got pretty good at it. Even made a photography business out of it for a while.
Selling pictures of athletic accomplishments or families with smiles was more emotionally rewarding than photographing cheaters, either insurance or marriage infidelity.
“Brett hit .305 for his career,” I said. “Failed plenty and still made the Hall of Fame.”
Yes, I still think what George Brett did, in Kansas City, is vastly underappreciated in the baseball world. And he stayed one of us. Try that in the modern game of baseball.
Money, sex and power are the vices that destroy businesses, marriages and now our enjoyment of sports. The modern day story of sports is its own crime fiction novella waiting for the right author. The ingredients are all there.
Shawna didn’t even look at the wall. “You’re not playing baseball. This is our money. The little money we have.”
That was Shawna in one sentence. No wasted motion. She could also see possible consequences that I would never consider. I guessed it had something to do with the harder upbringing. Being out there in the middle of nowhere, a fifty-minute bus ride to a school in another county.
She wasn’t wrong. We’d been married for twenty-four years and only recently gotten to where a bad month didn’t automatically become a crisis. I saw leverage. She saw exposure. I saw a chance to move up. She saw a chance to slide backward.
They say opposites attract. In my real life, my wife is more safety oriented. She likes security. I have mostly been more adventurous. Or reckless. You decide.
If something caught my fancy, professionally speaking, I would chase it down. Especially in my younger days. My wife said it was because I couldn’t hold a job. I framed it as I’m too young to sit in a cube my whole life.
That wasn’t going to work.
I would always count on me. Sometimes that didn’t work. Mostly for the first half of our marriage it didn’t work. My wife stood by me.
That’s a special lady.
That’s marriage. Same facts. Different blood pressure.
If you’ve been married for more than a day, I don’t need to explain this sentence.
Next Wednesday
Next Wednesday I'll feature another micro-story from the manuscript. These Behind the Writing pieces will be mixed in until October when Notice of Assignment releases. I'd love to know what landed for you this week.
© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved
To get the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment, visit CalBrink.com.
Thank you for reading.