A new beginning to my current novel

Sheesh that sounds presumptious. It assumes I'm a writer.

Just because I've completed National Novel Writing Month's 50,000 word challenge twice (shameless bragging), doens't make me an AUTHOR.

Does it? Eh...I'm not going to worry about that right now.

This year I wrote a novel called Blood Freckles. It is a compilation of several stories I have written before or wanted to write, which suddenly came together for me last November.

The synopsis is this: Nina Frey grows up with an obsessive crush on a boy. They both witness the suicide of Jeremy, Nina's neighbor. This only makes Nina more fixated on this boy, who's name she doens't even know. As Nina becomes an adult, she never grows out of the obsession, and realizes there is more to it. She returns to her childhood home, where she realizes her love of "Adam" is not her only oddity. She see's through time, and Jeremy never really left.

(that synopsis is a work in progress)

At around 65,000 words, I thought it was perfect. Then I re-read it in January. It was much, much less than perfect.

Now, I re-write it. In first person, a point of view I don't think I understand.

Here is my very first publicly exposed excerpt: (be gentle, please)

It must be an old bar, because I can see people all over the place that aren’t here now, which usually happens in establishments that are old. These are the things my brain strays towards- which has helped keep me out of normal situations all my life. I can always retreat to the secret knowledge of what has been in a place over whats happening now.
I’m trying to live in that “now”. It’s sort of awful.

The thing about rum is that your fingers go numb before your mind does and then you just look like a fool, trying to open your purse or pick up a napkin. This is what he’s seeing, from across the bar- my clumsy fingers fidgeting while pretending to listen to a friends story. He looks inebriated also, but not in the embarrassing way I do. I keep thinking I’ll look up and he will have looked away, or worse, started talking to someone else. He is alone, doesn’t interact with anyone around him, drinking something brown over ice and smoking a cigarette every few minutes. He scares me to death.

I can’t look away from him because the fact is, I’m overwhelmingly attracted to him.
I have no understanding of what it means to be a woman in a bar, talking to a man. Until now, I’ve never been in a bar. I’ve only been with one man. (Man is questionable, I think boy, or maybe guy is a better label) I’ve only had alcohol a few times, and in very small amounts in the privacy of my own residence. This is all too adult for me, I’m sure. I’m just waiting for someone to walk up to me and revoke my license to adulthood or something. Surely I’m not old enough to be considering what would happen if this man comes and talks to me.

Erica is chattering on about something hilarious because both of my other friends are in stitches over it. I can’t really hear them. They are used to going to bars, they are used to reality in way that will never happen for me, I’m quite sure. For some reason, they either like me or tolerate me and my weirdness.

“Nina, just go talk to him.” Erica stops her own story short and poked my arm.

“No, I think he’s just drunk.” I shrug and pretend to sip my rum and Coke. I can’t bear to lose anymore function than I have already, but I feel stupid just sitting here.

“So? He’s fine, and he’s looking at you like you’re edible.” Erica says, swigging the rest of her beer. My other friends were eyeing me, waiting for me to act.

I’m numb from rum, but I get up. I grab my coat from the stool and make my way around the u-shaped bar. There is no crowd to negotiate, as least, not in everyone else’s eyes.

I don’t even look where I’m going, I just set myself down on the stool next to him and stare at the woodgrain of the bar top. Immobility seems to set in, perhaps for both of us. Maybe he wasn’t looking at me at all? Maybe we were all way off base? Maybe he thinks I’m dressed weird- which, is totally understandable if you know me.
He speaks.

“I was going to buy you a drink.”

His voice is close enough to my ear, I can feel the rush of air around the words. I manage to look at him, now at close range. His eyes aren’t dark, like I thought they were- they are grey.

“I don’t think I could take another drink.” I smirk.

“Me neither.” He says, setting his glass down and snuffing his cigarette. I notice he is wearing a Who t-shirt and jeans. I, in contrast am wearing a vintage black dress from the 40’s thats lined with red, with fishnet stockings and suede t-straps. I set my red hair in rollers and smoothed it into perfect waves, completing what now feels like a costume. I wish I could melt into the floor.

I watch him pull something out of his pocket, then turn my head away. I have no idea what to do or say. My friends moved to a small table in the corner where they are pretending not to watch me. They are laughing there asses off.

“I need to get out of here before I drink myself unconscious.” I hear him say in slurred speech. He is standing now, assisted by the wall behind him. His eyes are centered on me and filled with a look I recognize.

“Where are you going to go? Home?” I ask,innocent.

“Home is NY. I’m staying across the street.” He says, face unchanging.

“I drove myself here. I could…walk you there, I guess.” I say, tilting my head. I know better. I should be afraid. I should assume he’s going to kill me, but I can’t help it. I’m drawn in, and the bastard probably knows it.

He smiles and gestures to the door. I look back at my friends one more time, and Erica spits out her drink across Shelbys lap.

He steps outside and lights another cigarette. “Does this bother you?”

I clear my throat. “No, I mean, it’s cool, I just…I don’t know, maybe I’m assuming too much, I really just got out of a relationship, and it was my first relationship. I don’t really have much experience with these kinds of-”

“I meant the smoke.” He smiles, then inhales deeply.

“Oh.” I am such a loser. “No, it’s fine. I smoke sometimes.” I am the bumbling idiot I think I am.

He smiles, but winces and smooshes his forehead with his hand like his head hurts.
He takes me by the arm, loops his through mine and leads me across the street- a strangely familiar action for someone I’ve only known for 3 minutes. He smells good, not entirely like booze, but his brown hair is mussed in back like he hasn’t washed it or brushed it in a day or so. He’s wearing worn Converse sneakers that are barely tied.

The sun went down an hour ago, but light still remains. I breath in the city air and try to feel normal. There’s nothing about this that is normal for me. I’m a Pastors kid, for God’s sake. When we reach the hotel entrance, he opens the door for me. It’s an older hotel, privately owned, and well maintained. The lobby smells like old wood and carpet cleaner.

He leads me to a hallway while he rummages in his pocket for a room key. It is an actual key, in a time when most hotels are switching to cards.

He tries to get the key in the lock and drops it. I laugh a bit, thinking of plenty of bad omens I could tease him about if I knew him better. “Can I help you? I can still use my fingers.” I pick up the key and unlock the door myself. When I return the key to his hand, he leans in a plants his face on my neck, pushing me against the doorway. For a moment I can’t tell whether he intends to kiss my neck, or if he’s passed out. I put my arms around him and I’m relieved that he has not passed out.

Before the tomato-throwing commences, let explain that this goes on, but I'm not ready to post the rest of this scene. Mostly for reasons of embarrassment that my mom might read it and be made that I wrote something where two people had sex. For the record, mom, dad...people have sex. Even me. At least three times (I have the proof in my living room, watching Harry Potter and eating cookies).

I'm trying to write a beginning that hooks the reader by introducing the love interest immediately in a situation that, well, drives the reader onward.

I am the first to admit my writing is rough. I welcome your thoughts. I think. (I do, really)