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I've been monkeying with the beginning of my novel. It's crucial I get it as good as possible because . . . well, let's just say someone who could do good things for me wants to see it.
Simply, I want your reaction to the opening lines. Good, bad, or indifferent.
(When the reader picks up the novel he/she'll know from the blurb that it's a suspense set in Paris).
The largest of Notre Dame’s five bells tolled high noon just as Hugo reached the end of the bridge. It seemed to him that the brittle air held onto the final clang longer than usual.
He paused and looked across the busy Paris street into Café Panis, the yellow carriage lights above its windows beckoning him in. He could see dim figures moving about inside, customers choosing tables and impatient waiters flitting around them like dancers. Hot coffee was tempting, but this was the first day of a vacation he didn’t want, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, and he didn’t much want to sit at a table by himself and think about that.
He hunched his shoulders and turned right onto Quai Montebello, leaving the café behind, heading north alongside the river. He glanced over the parapet as he walked, the growl of a motor launch floating up from below, the boat’s propellers thrashing at the icy waters of the Seine. On cold days like this he wondered how long a man could survive in the river’s oily waters, struggling against the deceptively strong current before succumbing to its frigid grip. It was a grim thought and one he quickly dismissed. After all, this was Paris; there was too much boat traffic, too many people like him admiring the river from its multitude of bridges, for a flailing man to go unnoticed for long.
Simply, I want your reaction to the opening lines. Good, bad, or indifferent.
(When the reader picks up the novel he/she'll know from the blurb that it's a suspense set in Paris).
The largest of Notre Dame’s five bells tolled high noon just as Hugo reached the end of the bridge. It seemed to him that the brittle air held onto the final clang longer than usual.
He paused and looked across the busy Paris street into Café Panis, the yellow carriage lights above its windows beckoning him in. He could see dim figures moving about inside, customers choosing tables and impatient waiters flitting around them like dancers. Hot coffee was tempting, but this was the first day of a vacation he didn’t want, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, and he didn’t much want to sit at a table by himself and think about that.
He hunched his shoulders and turned right onto Quai Montebello, leaving the café behind, heading north alongside the river. He glanced over the parapet as he walked, the growl of a motor launch floating up from below, the boat’s propellers thrashing at the icy waters of the Seine. On cold days like this he wondered how long a man could survive in the river’s oily waters, struggling against the deceptively strong current before succumbing to its frigid grip. It was a grim thought and one he quickly dismissed. After all, this was Paris; there was too much boat traffic, too many people like him admiring the river from its multitude of bridges, for a flailing man to go unnoticed for long.
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Trust me, you won't be disappointed. 
