Requesting Help and Critique on (the beginning of) a Novel!
I wrote this just recently and would like advice and/or constructive criticism. Thank you so much!
Faye
"I know who I am, it’s not this; I am not who you see, nor am I who I see, or feel. The dark hair I see hovering in front of my eyes as I write this is not mine. Neither is the red tip of the nose I see perched at the edge of my vision. Not even the hands I am using belong to me. This is the story in which becomes recounted my grasping hold of it.
My name is Faye. My grandmother was dying when I was born; my name was her last request. No one knows why she chose Faye, an uncommon and -often said- cursed name; though my mother, wishing to honor her last request, bestowed the name upon me. The day she died my grandfather locked himself in their house and did not leave for seven days. The heads of the village waited on him for the burial; traditionally done three days after the death. When he exited the house, they lowered my grandmother into her grave; my grandfather watching from a nearby hill. He stood there for the remainder of the day, not moving a muscle. That night I was full of curiosity, so after the evening meal, I sneaked out and hid behind the wood stack by my grandfather’s house to watch for him. By the time it was full night, I was shivering and wet. I remember the nearby mountains, the trees on their slopes still clinging to the remaining snow, though it was nearly midsummer. The cool damp air from hovering storm clouds had drawn down into the valley; bringing with it straggling wisps of white fog. I sat there all night; drowsy and cold, sure I was going to become sick. Every couple hours I would fade unnoticing into sleep only to be woken by the sudden flight of a bird, or by strange dreams in which I wasn’t sure if I was conscious or dreaming. By the time the moon was getting low in the sky I was asleep more often than awake. Near dawn weariness overcame me; I suspect that my grandfather found me when he entered the house to retrieve the things necessary for the end of his vigil, for I was not woken as expected by his customary door slam. Instead, when the first rays of sunlight found our small green valley floor, I heard faint notes of music coming from over the hill in front of the house. Believing myself to be in a dream, I followed the sound, thinking that as it was such, it could not hurt. On my first attempts to stand I nearly stumbled, I was so sore. But I was spellbound by the music, and continued. When I crested the hill I found my grandfather standing not ten feet away from me. He was singing a lament for my grandmother. That song haunts me to this day."
