That's where you, my lovely readers, come in! Below are two slivers of the first chapter (which might even become the opening scene). Thoughts? Reactions? Do you like one POV over the other? Or are you indifferent? Share your thoughts, please!
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3rd person:
Across the café, the man moved the newspaper from the tabletop to his lap.
As Anne approached him—he looked away and finally unfolded his newspaper—she realized she’d first seen him yesterday, at a bakery around the corner. Anne’s body trembled.
But the café was full of curious Parisians. She would be okay. She just had to tell him to leave her alone and that’d be that.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est ce bordel? What the hell?” Anne demanded. “Just because I’m an American doesn’t mean you can stalk me.”
The man awkwardly smiled. “I am so sorry, mademoiselle,” he laughed, causing Anne’s heart to race. His accent was slightly off—but not American. “It is just, you are so striking, and now that I finally see you up close, I am sure.”
“No,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t bother with the lines. I’m not interested. Got it?” She buttoned the top button of her pea coat as she turned to go.
“You misunderstand,” he called after her.
Despite the man's subdued demeanor, Anne walked away. Wind blew her hair into her eyes and mouth. She wiped at them both. She stopped an intersection, looking left, then right. He didn’t seem crazy—just odd, especially with his comment. What kind of strange pick-up line was that supposed to be? She slowly felt calmer, feeling like she’d done the right thing confronting him. He wasn’t anyone to be scared of.
“Anne Marie?” The man caught up to her.
Anne spun around. Her heart was suddenly pounding full throttle again, nervousness, like blood, surging through her veins. He knew her name. He was really stalking her. There could be no other explanation.
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1st person:
Across the café, he nervously moved the newspaper from the tabletop to his lap.
I clicked send on the email to Lisa and gulped down my coffee, ignoring how warm it still was. I had to get it through this dude's thick skull that it was not okay to keep staring at me, or to follow me from one cafe to the next.
As I sauntered over, clutching my tote bag to my side, he looked away and finally unfolded his newspaper, and I almost stopped. I'd seen him before, the day before at the bakery where I bought a croissant. I trembled - but forced myself to keep walking.
The café was full of curious Parisians, staring at me, this naive, American girl, approaching some man I didn't know. Hadn't I learned this was exactly what not to do, when I grew up in Chicago? I took a deep breath. This was different. This was Paris, and I could handle my own. I would just tell him to leave me alone and that’d be that. Simple.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est ce bordel? What the hell?” I demanded. “Just because I’m an American doesn’t mean you can stalk me.”
The man awkwardly smiled. “I am so sorry, mademoiselle,” he laughed, causing my heart to jump and miss a beat. His accent was slightly off—but not American. “It is just, you are so striking, and now that I finally see you up close, I am sure.”
“No,” I groaned.“Don’t bother with the lines. I’m not interested. Got it?” I buttoned the top button of my pea coat and turned to go, thinking that was it, thinking that was all he needed to hear.
But then his low voice called out to me, beseeching, “You misunderstand.”
I continued walking away anyways, refusing to honor his stalkerish ways with one more word. The wind blew my hair into my eyes and mouth. I wiped at them both. I paused at an intersection, looking left, then right. He didn’t seem crazy—just odd, especially with his comment; what kind of strange line was that supposed to be? Definitely unlike anything I'd heard before. I slowly felt calmer, reassured by the feeling that I'd done the right thing in confronting him. He wasn’t anyone to be scared of.
“Anne Marie?” His voice, no longer carried by the wind, came from only a few steps behind me.
I spun around. My heart suddenly pounded full throttle again; nervousness, like blood, surged through my veins.
He knew my name. He really was stalking me. What other explanation could there be?