Shhh. It's just us. You and me and Friday Feedback.
With my debut book launch for The Pull of Gravity a mere seven weeks (!!) away, it's getting a little hairy around here.
Anyway, I've got a ton to do, so we're just gonna get right to it.
I'm going to post the opening to Part Three of my WIP entitled In Sight of Stars so we're in the middle of the story here. This ms is geared toward an upper YA audience. The narrator is 17-yr old Klee Alden (pronounced Clay with a long a). You know the RULES:
Tell me what works for you, draws you into the piece, and why;
Tell me what doesn’t work for you (if something doesn't) and why.
If you’d like the same feedback on something you're working on, 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...).
Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs. 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.
My mother is wearing jeans again. I wonder vaguely if she’s gone out and bought herself a whole closet full. The expensive kind at $160 per pair. I never understood that, the difference between cheap jeans and expensive ones except that it looks like the expensive ones have been ironed which is just weird. You don’t iron jeans. But it’s better than a Channel suit and heels, and besides, I’m trying not to be angry with her. I’m trying to be sympathetic. After all, she has suffered too.
My eyes skate away from my mother to Dr. Alvarez’s wall. It’s sunny and bright outside today, and she has the curtains pulled wide. Her office is awash in sunlight; dust motes float through the air. I think of Mindy Ansail and the cats and the dust, and Sister Agnes Teresa and Sarah. Why does everything always rush in like a jumble like that?
On the far wall between Dr. A’s chair and the couch are two new framed prints, Starry Night and, better yet, The Pink Orchard. She’s matted them, but still.
“Klee." My mother stands and holds her arms out, which throws me. I don’t know the last time my mother and I hugged. I sit on the couch instead. I’m not exactly ready to go there. She smiles weakly and sits down, so I move a few inches closer to make up for things. She puts a hand on my knee making her gold bracelets jangle. “You’re looking stronger and stronger,” she says.