I would really appreciate some feedback. I am preparing a project application for a writing class - I need to prepare 30 pages worth of material from the novel I intend to write. It's due in 10 days. I'm stuck on a few things - but right now my major debate is whether I ought to leave it in 3rd person, or switch 1st person. Anyone willing to help . . . I will love you forever Criticisms, opinions, grammar corrections would all be welcome.
Working Title: Of Wyrms and Women
I sit on the subway, thinking of Wealhtheow. Whether or not Wealhtheow existed. Whether her name was a work of fiction. Hrothgar is a historical figure, as are his sons. But who was his wife? Was she Wealhtheow? Was she the peace-weaver?
The train jerks to a stop. The doors open, the off-key jingle clangs a second afterwards. Whose job is it to fix that? Is there a subway tuner who will adjust the chime to match the rest? I like to imagine him: an old man who began his career tuning pianos and switched to subways when he found it more lucrative. There is less competition in the field of subway-tuning, it being a somewhat maligned occupation in the world of professional instrument tuners. The doors close, and the warning chime sounds a few seconds late.
Reading the opening of Beowulf again led me to think that I am not welcome within the lines. This tradition does not belong to me at all: I am not a warrior, not a Geat or a Dane, not even Anglo-Saxon. This story about Denmark, written in England, is taught as part of the Great Western Heritage. Yet I feel disassociated from the collective consciousness, unwelcome. I picture Vikings as I read, but I don’t know if that’s really who I’m reading about. I was taking a class at the university for something to do, hoping perhaps to meet people, maybe make some friends. Instead, I was introduced to Beowulf, briefly. The instructor assumed that everyone had encountered him before. When the rest of the class moved on, I lingered on the epic, and stopped going to class. I had fallen in love.
The subway arrives at my stop, and I stride quickly out the door and across the platform towards the stairs. I emerge at street-level to find it has started to rain. Of course. I tuck Beowulf into my shirt—at least it won’t get soaked—and I start to jog towards my building. It’s not far, but I wish I had an umbrella, or a jacket, or really anything that would keep the water off. I turn the corner, and dash into my building. It’s an old, depressed building, with an ugly grey exterior and peeling paint in the hallways. The elevator license has been expired for about a year, but nobody seems to have done anything about it. As far as I know, few people have used the elevator over the past few years anyways, both because of the horrible clunking sound it tends to make and the way it doesn’t really line up with the floors when it stops. The stairs, at least, are level. And I’ve never known them to lurch the way the elevator does.
The building is only six stories high. I live on the fifth floor. The climb’s not too bad, but I’m out of breath by the time I reache the top. Fortunately, my door is the first one on the left. I let myself in, and carefully pull Beowulf out of my shirt. I examine the wet book. If I let it dry pressed underneath a heavier book it probably won’t even crinkle. I set it down on a table, and find a heavy textbook. Gently, I smooth Beowulf flat and place the unread A History of World Societies on top.