Hi there.

This is awkward.

Ok.  If you’ve been following me,  you know I’ve been working on a book.  I just finished the first draft of it thanks to a huge push from Camp NaNoWriMo and two friends who were very persuasive about getting me to commit to the Camp.

I have met, via the blogosphere, a published writer who has become somewhat of a mentor to me, whether she likes it or not. She offered to do a critique of my first page and that would be her guest blog spot on my blog, this here “Grass Oil by Molly Field” which would be tomorrow. So, for you all to get in on the action (if you wish), here’s the ultra-current first page of my book, tentatively titled, Miriam: Recovered.

Miriam’s SUV bounded into the parking lot at an assertive clip, scraping the spoiler under its oil pan casing.  She would have sent a smaller car into next week had that driver’s preternatural instinct failed to move forward at the precise divinely inspired moment.  Miriam steered into now empty parking spot, shifted into park and sat there for a moment.  She looked up from her dashboard and her eyes landed on the giant white “E” monogrammed in Edwardian script on a maroon awning and curtain protruding from the rear of a white brick colonial-style building in the parking lot next door.  The awning belonged to the Everon Funeral Home as fate would have it, and it shielded the shiny black hearses and their contents from public view.  She sighed and wondered if doing any of this because of a dream was really so necessary.

If it weren’t for her friend Julia compelling her to go to see a professional, Miriam would surely be doing something else.  But the fact of the matter was that she was in straits and she needed help.  If Julia knew anything, Julia knew a crisis.

Resigned to reason, Miriam unlocked her door, stepped on to the running board and then to the pavement. The sun was doing its best to warm the earth through the winter chill.  Tightening her coat’s belt around her waist, she then adjusted her handbag over her shoulder, shifted her weight forward, exhaled with purpose and pressed on, entering her therapist’s office building through the rear door.

O my God, she thought to herself as she stared at the ornate faux Oriental rug in her therapist’s waiting room. I’m doomed to be in this place forever. In this hole of ‘what the what’ until I die. Once the kids are gone, I’ll be like my mother. Waiting to die. Looking for my value in other things; the books I read or the magazines that sit on my end tables waiting to be thrown out. Not even opened. Like the paintings on the walls, gathering dust on the rims of their frames. What a whacked out existence this has become. It’s not even 9 am and I’m already pissed off.

End tables. What the hell is an end table? I mean, really? Why did someone come up with them?

Still here? Ahhh… good. I was so nervous just then.

The next phase, as I mentioned above is to show you my mentor friend’s review / critique.  She said she is offering “a extremely practical critique, offered as a mentor/professional writer.  I intended your goal to be reaching towards publication, and I was trying to help you reach that goal.”  So I realize that if I’m terrified now showing you all that first page, then well, I expect to be throwing up from anxiety tomorrow when I show you what she said.

So… tell me what you think if you wish and you can totally do it in the comments section. If I wanna be a Writer, I have to grow some skin.

Thank you.