The River Lethe (first few paragraphs - 450 words)
Posted: May 15th, 2010, 10:16 pm
I try to go by the whole rule that is "make the first few paragraphs of the novel draw the reader in" and so far, I've sort of been failing at that (since I don't have enough "action," but "action" is a vague term). So these are the first few paragraphs of my current WIP. Be as brutal as you see fit (I can definitely take it :D ) :
_______
Part I
Chapter 1
Victoria
It was my first day at Colegio Nacional and I was terrified. From this point on, I was surrounded by the best and brightest of Buenos Aires. El Colegio, I knew, or so I’d heard in tones that could be described as awestruck and even reverent, was a place where cultural literacy reigned supreme, where even first years my age would sit around and discuss and debate everything, from literature to politics to psychology. An El Colegio student could probably even strike up a debate about something as dry, in my opinion, as mathematics. An El Colegio student could and would find the deeper meaning behind those numbers and formulas, some theory about life or government. It sounded absurd, I thought, but many at El Colegio, as I would later learn, believed with all their hearts that the seemingly absurd was indeed possible.
At the same time, I remained in shock from my admission to such an institution. My parents, knowing how much I loved literature, thought it would be best for me to study my passion at one of the greatest, if not the greatest secondary school in the country. They made me take the multiple admissions exams and I had passed, with flying colors, they had told me. I told my parents I doubted that. They said it was my humility talking.
“Hey.” I looked down and noticed the water still running over my hands. Another girl stood next to me, washing her own hands, squirting soap into her palm.
“I’m Liliana. What’s your name?”
“Victoria Gallardo.”
Liliana rinsed the soap off her hands. “It’s my first day here.” She smiled. “I’m nervous, but so excited. How about you?”
“Just nervous.”
“Are you a first year?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too,” Liliana said. “It’s been my dream to come here ever since I can remember.” She dried her hands with a paper towel and then fluffed her mass of curly, brown hair. She sighed, a huge grin on her round, freckled face. “I can’t believe it. I’m now walking down the same halls as future presidents and senators and intellectuals and journalists. I want to be a journalist. What do you want to do?”
I never really thought about my life past university. I knew I wanted to study literature, but that was about it. “I might be a teacher, like a literature teacher,” I said. “I love literature.” Slowly, I began to unwind. My heart slowed its rapid beating, from the speed of a war drum to that of a pencil absentmindedly tapping against the surface of a desk.
Liliana nodded. “Journalists have to read a lot, you know. Newspapers and other things too.”
_________
_______
Part I
Chapter 1
Victoria
It was my first day at Colegio Nacional and I was terrified. From this point on, I was surrounded by the best and brightest of Buenos Aires. El Colegio, I knew, or so I’d heard in tones that could be described as awestruck and even reverent, was a place where cultural literacy reigned supreme, where even first years my age would sit around and discuss and debate everything, from literature to politics to psychology. An El Colegio student could probably even strike up a debate about something as dry, in my opinion, as mathematics. An El Colegio student could and would find the deeper meaning behind those numbers and formulas, some theory about life or government. It sounded absurd, I thought, but many at El Colegio, as I would later learn, believed with all their hearts that the seemingly absurd was indeed possible.
At the same time, I remained in shock from my admission to such an institution. My parents, knowing how much I loved literature, thought it would be best for me to study my passion at one of the greatest, if not the greatest secondary school in the country. They made me take the multiple admissions exams and I had passed, with flying colors, they had told me. I told my parents I doubted that. They said it was my humility talking.
“Hey.” I looked down and noticed the water still running over my hands. Another girl stood next to me, washing her own hands, squirting soap into her palm.
“I’m Liliana. What’s your name?”
“Victoria Gallardo.”
Liliana rinsed the soap off her hands. “It’s my first day here.” She smiled. “I’m nervous, but so excited. How about you?”
“Just nervous.”
“Are you a first year?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too,” Liliana said. “It’s been my dream to come here ever since I can remember.” She dried her hands with a paper towel and then fluffed her mass of curly, brown hair. She sighed, a huge grin on her round, freckled face. “I can’t believe it. I’m now walking down the same halls as future presidents and senators and intellectuals and journalists. I want to be a journalist. What do you want to do?”
I never really thought about my life past university. I knew I wanted to study literature, but that was about it. “I might be a teacher, like a literature teacher,” I said. “I love literature.” Slowly, I began to unwind. My heart slowed its rapid beating, from the speed of a war drum to that of a pencil absentmindedly tapping against the surface of a desk.
Liliana nodded. “Journalists have to read a lot, you know. Newspapers and other things too.”
_________