What's in a name?

Here in America we really don't think of people's names as having a meaning - unless they're a member of a First Nations group or we're playing along with one of those silly assed Facebook games "What's your Native American Name".  Except most names do have a meaning.  Take mine for example - my first name can mean either Grey or Wise, my middle name means either Bear or Eagle, and my last name means "From the land of the Bou" - putting that all together we get Grey Eagle from the land of the Bou, or Wise Bear from from the land of the Bou (or any variation there of) - with the added caveat that since I'm named for my father, I could, were we using the Roman Styling, add "The Younger".  My paternal grandfather was Bear/Eagle Conquering from the land of the Bou.  Which also indicates at least three generations with a common name.  Then, there's my mother's family - on one side you have either Michael Albert or Albert Michael going back as far as we can trace through the generations, and on the other side, there's at least one William something as far back as we can take my grandmother's family line (since she was an only child, she's the exception - although she did have an aunt named Richard.  Hey, it was the Victorian Era - same time frame as Arthur Lizzy Borden (yes, that's her real name)).
Now, I can see someone out there going what the hell does this have to do with writing?  Well, lets see - when you're naming a character, think about the things you want to put forward with the character's name.  Is he just a common man who will lead people out of darkness?  How about Robert (Ray of Light).  Is she favored or does she have grace from a higher power?  How about Anne (Favor or Grace).  Or you know, you could show who's the hero of the novel with something like Hiro Protagonist.  If you really want to hit people over the head with it.

Write the damn story.

So, you've got the idea.  Now what?  Write the damn story.  Don't worry about how long its going to be or how pretty its going to be.  Just write.  Let the story tell its self.  If it wants to be told in third person omniscient, then tell it that way.  If it wants to be told in first person limited, do so.  But until you put it on paper or on a phosphorescent screen, its just an idea if that.  If you worry about form before you worry about putting the story on the page you're putting the cart before the horse

Having said that, let's tell a story, shall we?

On 30 June 2004 I flew into Baghdad, Iraq and then to Camp Anaconda where we unloaded the aircraft.  Once we had everything off the plane we went to the man camp where we found cots and bedded down for the night.  At 730 the sirens went off and there were two impacts on the far side of camp.  After the all clear we were told we had made a mistake in not making sure that everyone had gotten out of the tent, then allowed to go back to bed.  Around 1130 pm I was awakened to answer a call of nature, and as I was getting ready to get out of bed, a rocket impacted about eighty feet away spraying debris on the tent.  I put on my gear and headed to the porta john and then looked at my options for a bunker - the one on my right was full so I went to my left and entered the bunker there where there were five people.

Good story, right?  Tells everything that happened.  But not very exciting, no?  How about this version -

Ya'll ain't gonna believe this shit but, I got to Iraq back in June of 04.  We left the hotel in Dubai at about oh dark thirty in the morning, and after riding in drag racing buses through the darkened streets of Dubai, unloaded at the airport where we scrambled to find out luggage and drag it into the airport where we got to go through pat down and all the joys of modern travel.  Then on to the aircraft, where we flew through the lightening skies to the west, arriving in Baghdad shortly after dawn.  We unassed the aircraft, went through Iraqi customs where they did their best to steal as much stuff as they could, then reloaded the plane and headed for Anaconda.  Arriving at Anaconda, we circled the field for about thirty minutes or so and then landed.  Anaconda HR came on the plane and welcomed us to the camp.  Then, they told us to get our asses off the plane and get everything unloaded, because they'd taken mortar rounds half an hour earlier, and were expecting more any minute.  Just don't go to the left side of the plane - the engine was turning and they were fueling over there.  We pulled the luggage from the hold and human chained it up into the back of a truck.  When finished, we hopped on buses and headed for the camp, where we unassed the buses again and unloaded our shit.  We found a cot and most of us collapsed - it was a long day.  Around 730 the mournful wail of the sirens went off and we all rolled out of the bunks and trundled off to the bunkers.  Forty five minutes later we were standing there shivering as an HR rep chewed our asses out because we'd left people sleeping in the tent.  Eventually they let us go back to sleep.  1130 rolled around and my body goes "Hey dummy.  You remember those six liters of water you drank?  It wants to come back out into the wild."
At that point, I started negotiating with my body, "But we're warm.  It's nice here in the blankets.  Can we wait a few minutes?"
I'd no sooner had that thought than BOOOOM!!!! something slammed into a connex box outside the tent and shit began raining down on us.  I rolled out of the cot to the floor with the thought "Fuckit, I'm pissing right here"  I laid there a minute and wiggled into my boots and armor as a herd of people thundered down the aisle, to the accompaniment of calls "FUCK THIS SHIT I'M GOING HOME TOMORROW!"  Once the herd had passed, I got to my feet and headed out the door.  Crossing the space, I got into the porta john, figuring it was better to die with an empty bladder than to get hit and piss all over myself.  Coming out of the porta john, I looked at the closest bunker, which was to the right.  People were cramming themselves into the bunker from the close end, and forcing people out the far side.  Those forced out were coming back to the end near the porta john and cramming themselves in, forcing more people out.  I looked to my left.  No one outside the bunker that I could see.  I looked at the conga line on the right one more time, then headed left.
"Welcome to the party, man!" a voice called from the bunker.  There were five people seated inside, and one tossed me a can of Coke. 

Same story, same info, right?  Well, a bit more.  But more importantly, its a more readable version.  Keep that in mind when you're writing.