Okay, well at least three of you do. But just in case, here they are again.
There's only three.
If you want more details, read this blog post here. http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/friday-feedback.html, or click on "the Rules" above, otherwise, just follow along.
I would like the following feedback (and will offer the same to you if you post an excerpt for me to read in the comments):
• If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel – as it is (again) today – tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?
• What else (if anything) works for you, and why?
• What doesn’t work for you (if something doesn't) and why?
If you would like the same feedback, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5 paragraphs. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such. If not, let me know how you found me.
Today, I am posting the opening paragraphs from another WIP (Work In Progress) of mine called In Sight of Stars. The audience is Upper YA (16+). Because it is an opening chapter, the main question is, does it hook you? And there is a curse in it, so if that offends you, stop reading now. :)
If you're here, thanks for participating. Can't wait to read your stuff.
My dad and I are walking through Soho. The day is bright and brisk. As we talk, our breath puffs out in front of us like steam from the street vents. Sarah is there with me. The sky turns dusky gray; the Empire State building towers ahead in pink-red glory. Dad laughs at something, and Sarah takes my hand.
Except, no. That’s not right. We’re not in Soho.
And Dad’s not there.
No one is there.
I scratch my ear.
“Try not to do that,” she says.
I look up. The woman is still there.
Middle aged. Dark, frizzy hair. A little overweight.
No, that’s not right either. Alvarez.
Art, I say, I met Sarah in art class. Is that what you asked me? I seriously can’t get my thoughts to collect.
Dr. Alvarez nods and I stare at the print on her wall. It’s a Van Gogh. Daubigny’s Garden. 1890. I think that’s why I’m willing to talk at all. Because of that print on her wall. If it had been anything else – a Monet, a Renoir – forget it. But it’s a Van Gogh, so there’s hope then.
“Tell me more about that,” she says.
I pull at my ear again. I try not to, but it itches.
My eyes go back to the print. The frame is wrong, too modern, and matted. You don’t really matte a Van Gogh. His paintings are expansive. The color should go right to the frame. I close my eyes and breathe. My throat feels too choked to swallow.