|Sometimes I just need to be upside down.|
Here they are again.
There are only 3: (If you want more details, read this blog post here: http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/friday-feedback.html) 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):
1. If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel – today it is NOT, so skip to #2. – tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?
2. What works for you, draws you into the piece (if it does) and why?
3. 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. 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 a piece from my young adult novel, Frankie Sky (ages 12+), about a 14-yr old girl who has been living in the shadow of her dead younger brother for years, until she meets a little boy she thinks may be her brother reincarnated. Hope you enjoy.
My eyes go to her living room window. The blinds are open, the room empty and still.
I squint my eyes and let my vision blur, and imagine Mrs. Merrill there in the window in her short black robe, the man who looks like my father embracing her, their lips locked, their hands frantically moving over each other's body, the action cut into tantalizing slices by the slatted blinds. I take a deep breath and let my mind wander further, to Mrs. Merrill running her hands through his thick hair as he – unable to help himself from her any longer – undoes the belt to her robe and pulls her into him, and they disappear down beneath the window sill.
I close my eyes and lie back on the cold cement stoop, and replace Mrs. Merrill with me, and the unknown man with Bradley Stephenson. How badly I want to feel someone wrap their arms around me and breathe me in (Bradley Stephenson, God let it be Bradley Stephenson!) as his lips cover mine and his hands roam over me and we slip down and disappear from view.
I think about my parents. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen them kiss or hug or do anything romantic like people in love are supposed to do. Not since the day that Simon died. I wonder if they are even in love anymore. I’m guessing, not. Maybe they love each other, but they’re not in love. Isn’t that what people always say?