Lately, a strong urge to start writing a novel is kind of agonizing me. Stories, I always had plenty but my writing was where I am always dubious. This is a shot I’m giving at it just to seek your comments on it. The following scene is from a movie. Please tell me how my language is. Your suggestions are most respected.
Rebecca woke up on a bed, in a room filled with books that would surely count in hundreds. She was on a bed with plush mattress and pillows snug and cozy in a thick woolen blanket on rich satin bed sheet. She was still in her blue top and cream cartons though. She got up from the bed and made her way to the door that was just a few feet away. The fresh and rejuvenated feeling she got while in bed was now evanescing as her mind started to get a clearer memory of what had happened a few hours ago before she fainted. A tart head ache started to tangent her mind when she could connect all loose ends and arrive at an astute picture. Her past was now clear to her while the present lingered hazy, ‘Where am I?’ being the first question.
She could see light from the thin space under the door. “Where am I?”, the question pinched her mind again. “Is someone there outside the door?” “Will I be safe if I open the door?” “Will it open or is it locked?”… She brought her hand to the knob, turned it and let the door creak open.
The room was very strange. Looked and felt eerie. It looked abandoned yet neat and tidy. Neatly levelled cement floor like in subways and other public places and statues with strangely expressed faces. On the walls were framed paintings that looked as if wearied by time. She took a few steps ahead, awe struck by the spatial magnanimity of the place, far too large to be called a room.
She now stood before a large painting of Charlemagne hung on the wall and suddenly felt someone behind her. Sensing harm, she turned back and looked at a man slim and tall, wearing all black. He stood there without movement as if holding himself rigidly. He was wearing a very strange mask.
How was it?