Well, folks, it is time. Time to reveal the project I’ve been working on for…well, a while now. And I’ve reached a bit of a low point in my progress. This means it’s time to ask for your help! See, I have an excerpt. Of a book. That I’m writing. And I need feedback. So I’m wondering: do you know anyone that could help?
Just kidding! I want you to help!
I dunno if novels are your thing, but you’re here for my witty banter (I assume) and I can’t seem to keep that out of my writing no matter what I am drafting, so hopefully you’ll enjoy this.
So here’s the deal: I want you to read the first chapter of my crime novel and tear it apart. Just absolutely shred it. What do you love, what do you hate, did you stop reading after the first paragraph, do you want to know why I chose a certain word, are you bored, do you want to know what happens, etc., etc., etc. And in return, I shall award you with…well, I guess it depends on your feedback. I shall either reward you with another excerpt, a finished book, or the promise to never write fiction again.
Cool? Great. Because I need help. I have an excerpt, you see.
And I want to know what you think.
Ready?
Here we go.
Chapter One
My day had already gone to hell in a handbasket long before the police force arrived. I’d woken up late, the hot water was out, my cat had thrown up on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, my downstairs neighbor was blackening fish at 9:00 in the morning, and I ripped a hole in my last good pair of stockings. So to say I was already in a bit of a mood when I arrived at work is to say that Gandhi was an okay guy. I’ll be honest: I was a hot mess.
I walked to work, still shivering in July from a frigid shower, trying not to let my legs rub together and make the stocking situation worse, smelling like last week’s fish fry and grumbling expletives under my breath. I’m sure the sounds of the city were pleasant as usual and I’m certain the Soldiers and Sailors monument looked regal as always, but I didn’t have the brain waves to notice. It’s entirely possible that the streets were already lined with cop cars. I was just focused on getting my sorry self to work. I did the usual fight with the front door of the theatre, taking note that the lock needed oil again, spilled my coffee on the carpet when I snagged my purse on the end of the railing, and generally stormed and cursed my way into the Hilbert Circle Theatre. Then I turned a corner to enter the front office as the first chair second violinist and “Guest Relations Specialist” of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra.
“Maude,” I said, dumping my purse on the corner of my desk and grabbing a tissue to mop up the rest of the spilled coffee, “It is officially a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”
“Yes, dear,” came Maude’s response from across the room. That was her reply to everything – I could tell her I saw Superman flying laps around the Circle and she would say, “Yes, dear.” But something in her voice caused me to look up.
The human brain’s ability to block out sensations until it is ready for them is amazing. I cannot possibly explain how I did not immediately notice that the 8’ x 10’ office that Maude and I shared was full to bursting with cops. When I say full, I mean they had somehow squeezed in three men in suits, four officers that television had taught me to call “unis,” and no fewer than six people in what I would consider SWAT garb. Two people were sitting on Maude’s desk; I could barely see her silver head behind what appeared to be a shield. I did a double-take and saw that one of the beat cops had his right foot in my trash bin. The room was a can of blue and black sardines, but I was the only person who smelled like one.
I also smelled something very fishy going on.
“Yes? Can I help you?” I asked as primly as possible, putting on my best, this-is-perfectly-normal, I-am-a-professional look.
One of the suits spoke. Unfortunately, he was at the back of the crowd, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face.
“Ma’am, are you Carrie Marie Fischer of Park Avenue?”
I frowned.
“Technically yes, although you make it sound like I’m one of the Manhattan Elite. I am not.”
There was some pushing and shoving from the direction of the voice. I decided that at this point the polite thing to do was to step backward, out of the office, to allow the teeming hoard to adjust their ranks. But the moment I took said step, the voice screamed, “SHE’S RUNNING!” and the entire can of sardines rushed at me simultaneously. I think there must have been some trampling in there because only one guy in SWAT gear made it out the door, but he tackled me like the Heisman was on the line and took all 138 pounds of me to the floor with a thud that must have sounded like the final timpani entrance in the Hallelujah Chorus. I can’t say for sure, though, because I blacked out the moment my head hit the ancient red carpet.
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