First Page Blues ...
I'm working on polishing the first page of my novel to a brilliant shine. They say it's the most important page for getting noticed by an editor or anyone, for that matter.
If you have a moment, my clever/creative/smart LJ friends, and could read this and tell me whether you would want to keep reading or not, and why, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Does it spawn questions in your mind whose answers you're curious about? Does it just confuse you? What changes would you recommend?
Thanks!
First page:
When most people say they’re crazy, it’s wishful thinking. I spent twenty years seeking just the opposite: stability, consistency, doldrums. When I, Viviane Rose, schizophrenic, said “I’m boring,” it was wishful thinking.
I resisted the crazies. I kept every day the same, more or less. Tick tock. The clock ruled my world. I paced myself to the beat of the metronome that droned in my subconscious day after day, night after night.
If you spend your life at the edge of a precipice, you remain ever-vigilant for those unexpected gusts of wind or ground tremors. I knew the day would eventually come when I’d lose my footing, though I successfully avoided thinking about it too often. Instead, I focused on my mentally ill mother, my relationship with my fiancé, and on my job.
I was the night supervisor in the laundry facility at the Vince Malum Residential Living Center, a long-term care home for the mentally ill. I was nobody, an everywoman who didn’t stand out in a crowd, and I liked it that way. I got the job done.
Then, my world cracked.
Poised on the threshold to the laundry room, I watched my people. We had three hours left in the graveyard shift. The gargantuan laundry machines-two washers and two dryers-created a constant cacophony, making the soundtrack of my life more like the orchestra’s chaotic warm-up than the melodious rifts of a Tchaikovsky ballet or even the dramatic arias of a Wagner opera.
Second page beyond the cut.
Still, I’d grown used to it over the years. I felt sheltered by the noise, protected by it even. The laundry facility was the one place where I was in control-of my world and of my mind. It was the only place where I had never experienced a hallucination.
Vertigo shifted my center of gravity, and I felt the floor open in front of me. I grabbed for the doorframe and took a deep breath, focusing my eyes-to the best of my ability-on the great white washer ahead. I was on a new anti-psychotic prescription, and my psychiatrist had warned me that I might experience some dizziness in the beginning. I was grateful it wasn’t accompanied by nausea, like before.
I felt the chasm close, and my body settled back into normal gravity. I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. The others were all pre-occupied with their duties. I wouldn’t have cared if they’d noticed; I just didn’t want to worry them over nothing. As shift manager, I’d hand-picked my crew, and a few of them had been with me for over a decade.
Jasmin “Jazz” Belonescu peeled away from the sorting table and crossed toward me. Even in the laundry smock and pants, he looked like a desert nomad, skin tanned by a harsh sun, mouth hardened by a harsh life.
For the thousandth time, I thought, He moves like a panther. I’d read that phrase somewhere, though I’d never met anyone else who actually did-only Jazz. His entire demeanor made him a little scary and a lot sexy. Though I’d never seen evidence of it, I was convinced that he was-or had been at one time-involved in nefarious activities.
“That load’s done.” he said when he was within earshot. “You want me to start the next one?”
If you have a moment, my clever/creative/smart LJ friends, and could read this and tell me whether you would want to keep reading or not, and why, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Does it spawn questions in your mind whose answers you're curious about? Does it just confuse you? What changes would you recommend?
Thanks!
First page:
When most people say they’re crazy, it’s wishful thinking. I spent twenty years seeking just the opposite: stability, consistency, doldrums. When I, Viviane Rose, schizophrenic, said “I’m boring,” it was wishful thinking.
I resisted the crazies. I kept every day the same, more or less. Tick tock. The clock ruled my world. I paced myself to the beat of the metronome that droned in my subconscious day after day, night after night.
If you spend your life at the edge of a precipice, you remain ever-vigilant for those unexpected gusts of wind or ground tremors. I knew the day would eventually come when I’d lose my footing, though I successfully avoided thinking about it too often. Instead, I focused on my mentally ill mother, my relationship with my fiancé, and on my job.
I was the night supervisor in the laundry facility at the Vince Malum Residential Living Center, a long-term care home for the mentally ill. I was nobody, an everywoman who didn’t stand out in a crowd, and I liked it that way. I got the job done.
Then, my world cracked.
Poised on the threshold to the laundry room, I watched my people. We had three hours left in the graveyard shift. The gargantuan laundry machines-two washers and two dryers-created a constant cacophony, making the soundtrack of my life more like the orchestra’s chaotic warm-up than the melodious rifts of a Tchaikovsky ballet or even the dramatic arias of a Wagner opera.
Second page beyond the cut.
Still, I’d grown used to it over the years. I felt sheltered by the noise, protected by it even. The laundry facility was the one place where I was in control-of my world and of my mind. It was the only place where I had never experienced a hallucination.
Vertigo shifted my center of gravity, and I felt the floor open in front of me. I grabbed for the doorframe and took a deep breath, focusing my eyes-to the best of my ability-on the great white washer ahead. I was on a new anti-psychotic prescription, and my psychiatrist had warned me that I might experience some dizziness in the beginning. I was grateful it wasn’t accompanied by nausea, like before.
I felt the chasm close, and my body settled back into normal gravity. I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. The others were all pre-occupied with their duties. I wouldn’t have cared if they’d noticed; I just didn’t want to worry them over nothing. As shift manager, I’d hand-picked my crew, and a few of them had been with me for over a decade.
Jasmin “Jazz” Belonescu peeled away from the sorting table and crossed toward me. Even in the laundry smock and pants, he looked like a desert nomad, skin tanned by a harsh sun, mouth hardened by a harsh life.
For the thousandth time, I thought, He moves like a panther. I’d read that phrase somewhere, though I’d never met anyone else who actually did-only Jazz. His entire demeanor made him a little scary and a lot sexy. Though I’d never seen evidence of it, I was convinced that he was-or had been at one time-involved in nefarious activities.
“That load’s done.” he said when he was within earshot. “You want me to start the next one?”