This is the first page of the first chapter in a novel I'm writing. It's fictional but all based on a true story. I appreciate all opinions!
My wedding was a very short seven days away, and there I was, sitting on the closet floor. My shoulder length dark brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and my bangs were pinned back to keep them out of my eyes as I worked. It felt especially hot for mid-September and my skin was clammy with sweat, the baby-doll pink tank-top I wore was sticking to me uncomfortably. All three windows in my one bedroom apartment were wide open, but the draft couldn’t be felt in the overstuffed walk in closet. Miraculously, through the chaos of classes, work, and wedding plans, I’d found time to make space in my apartment for my soon to be husband and all the belongings he came with. Under the mayhem of old matchless shoes and boxes of forgotten photo albums I’d stumbled on a treasure, a hard back journal. The face of a baby angel looking to the sky was surrounded by a pink and red floral pattern on the cover.
I opened it and flipped though its pages. They were lined, and a rose was imprinted on the corner of every sheet. The young handwriting sprawled on the pages as my own, but the words I read seemed from a different life time.
I had been looking forward to my new life of love and happiness. The past ten years had been hard, but I had done nothing but persevere. I’d found a way to begin my college education, landed a rewarding position with a commendable company, and, most importantly, found my soul mate. Through persistent hard work, and the grace of God, I was able to earn and keep everything I owned. I considered my small apartment and used Ford a luxury and at nearly twenty-three I was almost a completely different person than the thirteen year old who had poured her heart onto those pages. I had developed quite confidence, a strong sense of responsibility, and was in cool control of my emotions. There were some parts of me I refused to let change, while some people considered my giant soft heart a naive weakness, I relentlessly declined to let the cruel world give me sharp edges.
Remembering was painful. It stung my eyes and seared my heart, but once I had reopened those tender chapters of my life I couldn’t put them away easily. I thought back to my thirteen year old self, I’d been intelligent, but also dramatic and depressed. I’d kept this diary as a personal outlet, a coping mechanism. I had looked at it as if it were my autobiography and several times imagined it being found in a thousand years to be treasured as an artifact. I gulped, and dove into my past as I read the first entry.


Like I noted before, shorter paragraphs are basically easier on the eye. Remember, pretty things make the readers smile.