Specifics, Please!
How’s this?
I pushed open the door, walked to the car, drove a few miles past farmer’s fields, and found myself at Myra’s house.
Well, I suppose it gets the job done. And perhaps you want your reader to concentrate on something else. But what about this?
The old screen door squeaked and protested as I pushed it open; it slammed shut behind me. I jumped the three steps to the gravel path and swished through the unraked leaves downed during yesterday’s thunderstorm. My poor little MG, so impractical on Nebraska’s many dirt roads, sat muddy and forlorn; I hopped in and turned the key. It never does like to start. Just as the battery was almost dead, it coughed into life, complaining loudly through the hole in the muffler. The road, still muddy from the storm, was not kind to my MG, splattering mud everywhere, and I slid a little more than I liked around the sharp 90-degree bend near the massive oak. Thumping up and down over the washboards, all that remained of the corn crop was stubble, not yet plowed under. After a few more equally sudden turns, I caught sight of Myra’s farmhouse, mightly lonely on these flat western Nebraska plains. The outbuildings had long given in to nature, but Myra had worked miracles Read more…

