I've starting working on a psychological horror mystery novel. I just wanted to post a sample here to get feedback:
In the frosty night, the young woman waited by the door, simply sitting and watching the blue-white crystals of snow flitter down to the grass, softly coating it gently as though it knew that it’s icy cold touch would wilt and kill it. Other than her face, though, she wasn’t all that chilly; she was wearing an old winter coat she had bought over at the general store, along with a scarf and a pair of mittens that she had made herself, along with the old winter boots that had been her husband’s. But though they looked as though they might be as old as the house she now lived in with her two little children, she liked to believe they stayed nice and warm because a part of her husband was still in them. After all, it was the only thing of his she still owned. Only two months after his death six years ago, she’d lost the house; they simply owed too much on the mortgage for her measly salary to cover. She’d been fortunate to be able to rent this tiny cabin right outside of town. It had only two bedrooms, was cold as hell during winter (if hell was frozen instead of fiery), and hot as hell during summer. Still though, her children were fed, and that was what mattered, wasn’t it? Who am I kidding? She thought, I despise my life. She looked down at her ring finger where her wedding ring used to be. My Dear Miriam had been inscribed on it. She’d had to sell the ring to feed her children, Jason and Anna. Infuriating her still it did, how Abel, owner of the pawn shop, had only offered her half the ring’s value, knowing how desperate she was. Miriam looked up at the stars in the sky. She remembered her favorite poem as a child- it talked about always finding lovely things close to you. It was true, the world was beautiful. Beauty can’t feed you though, and love doesn’t stop hunger pains. Quickly, a small shooting star flew it’s way across the sky. Miriam remembered to make a wish: I wish that bastard Abel was butchered and stuffed like a pig. He was very piglike after all; a greedy fat man with enough of a gut to fit a pig inside. It was wondered by some how a man with that much of an appetite hadn’t married. People who knew the man better though didn’t need to wonder why he hadn’t married; Abel had more of a temper than a gut. It wasn’t a serious wish; it was merely a thought of anger. All sorts of things could be said about wishes, though, and half of them are foolish, and the other half are even more foolish. The best thing to say about wishes, really, is something that applies to all things in life: Nothing is ever free, especially not good things.
Who did you draw inspiration from? Your style of writing reminds me of E.F. Benson's Ghost Stories. And I'm not just pulling that out of my ass because I have a copy lying right here beside me. Not really my cup of tea but there definetly are some real good horror stories ones in there.
If this is your first shot at writing a novel I'd suggest two things: Don't try to cram all the stuff that's in your head in one novel. Stick to one major subject, there's plenty of time to write novels with different subjects. Also don't try to be too philosophical or "deep", it's only your first one after all.
