Tag for a new book

[JohnLocke]

Hey folks,

I wanted you guys to give me an opinion of the opening scene of my new book. It's more than a cover jacket, so any advice on where to cut and paste would be appreciated. If you'd read the book after this, great, but if not please tell me why. I'm a little concerned that my protagonist isn't sufficiently sympathetic for an American audience.

Many thanks:
"I, Suspect"

The phone kept ringing in my head. It was Madness calling, and I was awfully tempted. My brain had been swirling and heart racing for so long what with all the allegations, rumors, investigations, not to mention finals, the heat getting cut off, three packs a day, the waking nightmares, because I hadn’t slept since November.
The movie had been bad, but at least I couldn’t see the people stare at me in the dark, and if it didn’t actually put the recent whirling maelstrom of damnation that my life had devolved to completely out of my awareness, it at least blunted it with the occasional observation that “Sly Stallone should never try to act and cry.” It was cold and I was so strung out that I was twitching worse than schizophrenic after the Haldol wore off. I fumbled two cigarettes to the ground before I lit one on the filter end, burnt my fingers and cursed the moon. I was laughing to keep from breaking down and balling, but I was in public and there were cops and I really, really, really needed to pull it together.
Or not.
The thought was clear and calm and professionally detached. Why not? It asked. I mean worse case scenario those jack booted fascists masquerading as peace officers decide your resisting arrest and kill you. And would that be such a tragedy? After all, it’d be easier on your folks, give them someone to hate.
“Shut up!”
That was way! too loud, and way too public. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. I dropped the ciggy, stubbed it out and strode a little too purposefully to my car. My hands patting down my jacket for a lighter for the cigarette that had, of its own accord, found my mouth. All I could taste was ash these days, but I was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with my efforts to die of cancer before they zapped me.
And there it was. The overwhelming, awe inspiring and conclusive spiritual experience I and countless thousands of depressed, oppressed and obsessed millions had begged, pleaded, and died for.
“Need a light?” she asked, as she smiled and flicked a polished chrome Zippo. I lit the deathstick and took a deep drag, heart pounding mind reeling. But wasn’t that what these things were for? A social crutch? A less than impolite pregnant pause?
“Perhaps you oughta finish the one you’re smoking before you light up another.”
She smiled in that entirely too innocent yet absolutely not way that young women do when they wear those half leather jackets in the freezing cold.
“Uh…. Uh-huh.” I must’ve been channeling Cary Cooper.
“Look sweets, I’ve got an infinity of time, but you really don’t.”
“Um…. Yeah. Jesus H. Christ.”
She looked at me askance, but said nothing. But Jesus H. Christ, who would’ve thought Lucifer would be a petite, flat chested undergraduate chick with bangle earrings?
Jesus H. Christ. Jesus H. Christ. Jesus H. Christ.
“Would you stop that?” she asked testily.
Oh Christ, she can read my thought!
Of course, I can silly. How else was I suppose to know you? It’s not like you’ve been out since November.
Am I losing my mind?
Not yet, though that could be arranged.
Time. Time. I need … air.. Time…a way out.
I am the way out.

 

[DrFluffy]

Hey folks,

"I, Suspect"

The phone kept ringing in my head. It was Madness calling, and I was awfully tempted. My brain had been swirling and heart racing for so long what with all the allegations, rumors, investigations, not to mention finals, the heat getting cut off, three packs a day, the waking nightmares, because I hadn’t slept since November.
The movie had been bad, but at least I couldn’t see the people stare at me in the dark, and if it didn’t actually put the recent whirling maelstrom of damnation that my life had devolved to completely out of my awareness, it at least blunted it with the occasional observation that “Sly Stallone should never try to act and cry.” It was cold and I was so strung out that I was twitching worse than schizophrenic after the Haldol wore off. I fumbled two cigarettes to the ground before I lit one on the filter end, burnt my fingers and cursed the moon. I was laughing to keep from breaking down and balling, but I was in public and there were cops and I really, really, really needed to pull it together.
Or not.
The thought was clear and calm and professionally detached. Why not? It asked. I mean worse case scenario those jack booted fascists masquerading as peace officers decide your resisting arrest and kill you. And would that be such a tragedy? After all, it’d be easier on your folks, give them someone to hate.
“Shut up!”
That was way! too loud, and way too public. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. I dropped the ciggy, stubbed it out and strode a little too purposefully to my car. My hands patting down my jacket for a lighter for the cigarette that had, of its own accord, found my mouth. All I could taste was ash these days, but I was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with my efforts to die of cancer before they zapped me.
And there it was. The overwhelming, awe inspiring and conclusive spiritual experience I and countless thousands of depressed, oppressed and obsessed millions had begged, pleaded, and died for.
“Need a light?” she asked, as she smiled and flicked a polished chrome Zippo. I lit the deathstick and took a deep drag, heart pounding mind reeling. But wasn’t that what these things were for? A social crutch? A less than impolite pregnant pause?
“Perhaps you oughta finish the one you’re smoking before you light up another.”
She smiled in that entirely too innocent yet absolutely not way that young women do when they wear those half leather jackets in the freezing cold.
“Uh…. Uh-huh.” I must’ve been channeling Cary Cooper.
“Look sweets, I’ve got an infinity of time, but you really don’t.”
“Um…. Yeah. Jesus H. Christ.”
She looked at me askance, but said nothing. But Jesus H. Christ, who would’ve thought Lucifer would be a petite, flat chested undergraduate chick with bangle earrings?
Jesus H. Christ. Jesus H. Christ. Jesus H. Christ.
“Would you stop that?” she asked testily.
Oh Christ, she can read my thought!
Of course, I can silly. How else was I suppose to know you? It’s not like you’ve been out since November.
Am I losing my mind?
Not yet, though that could be arranged.
Time. Time. I need … air.. Time…a way out.
I am the way out.

OK, first question, would I want to buy the book? Possibly - the writing is pretty good. The sentence structure can be a bit long, e.g.

The movie had been bad, but at least I couldn’t see the people stare at me in the dark, and if it didn’t actually put the recent whirling maelstrom of damnation that my life had devolved to completely out of my awareness, it at least blunted it with the occasional observation that “Sly Stallone should never try to act and cry.”

I think it's the term 'devolved to' which sort of breaks the flow of this sentence. It also sort of meanders a bit - I know you could argue that he's expressing his concern with his life, but even so, it doesn't work for me.

Also, you say "breaking down and balling" - I think you mean bawling (i.e. crying).

First thoughts only

Dr Fluffy

 

[JohnLocke]

Thanks Doc,

Sorry about the spellchecker snafu, and you're right, I didn't like "devolved to" either, but really thanks!