A few months ago, I decided to re-write my book in 1st person from Jack's perspective. I've finished it. My mom read it, so far, and she passed it on to a couple of British friends of hers, whose native perspective I really need. But since they received it, I haven't heard a word from them. Of all the people I've sent my book to for feedback, only my mom and my best friend Aileen have actually read it.
So now I'm working on the 2nd book. That's being re-written in first person from Lizzie's perspective. I'm only about 55 pages in so far, but I've always felt more confident about this book, so I think it'll be good.
Here's a little snippet from the 2nd book:
When my dad, David Hennessey, arrived at Jack’s apartment, I greeted him at the door and thought he looked a bit tired. His hair was gray at the temples, which I never saw on him before. I suppose he always dyed his dark, curly hair (just like mine) and had recently been neglectful, but I’m surprised my mom let him go gray. He was wearing a dark-green tweed jacket, white button-down shirt and jeans. He was also wearing his glasses, which he usually didn’t do. I had been on the verge of dread about the evening, but now that he arrived, I felt happy to see him. He seemed less edgy than usual. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t with mom tonight. He was always more guarded around her.
“How’s my baby girl? It’s been too long since I’ve seen you,” he told me warmly. “I was so disappointed when you didn’t come for Christmas.”
“Sorry.” But I didn’t regret that at all; I was with Jack in England.
I led him into the kitchen, where Jack had his head in the oven. He took off his oven mitts and shook Dad’s hand with a big smile on his face. “Jack Franklin. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Very nice place, Jack,” Dad commented in the midst of surveying the place. He was duly impressed.
“Thank you,” Jack replied. I knew he was quite proud of his place, and with good reason. It was a two-bedroom, two-story townhouse with an office/den, full kitchen, two bathrooms, dining room, two balconies, a fireplace, underground parking and fantastic acoustics for playing violin or cello.
“You’re English?”
“Yeah,” Jack responded.
“Liz didn’t tell me that.” Dad smiled, looking at me. “How long have you been here?”
“It’ll be four years in July. I came for school. Can I offer you a drink? I have Merlot, Chardonnay, Sam Adams, Corona, soda, water…and I make a great Mojito.”
“I’ll have a Mojito, thanks.”
I leaned against the counter with my arms folded. I watched them as they studied each other, determined to decipher as many of their thoughts as possible. I didn’t anticipate Jack and Dad having any problems getting along; they were both perfectly amiable men. I retrieved a beer from the fridge, perhaps to numb myself to the topic of conversation that would inevitably arise; my mother. Jack was far too curious about her after I’d avoided the topic so many times not to ask Dad about her. And I knew Dad wouldn’t be remiss in talking about her to Jack.
