Hey; just wondering what you thought of the start of my story. I’m not that good, and I’m only 12, but if you could just give me some feedback, That’d be great

Have you ever noticed how slow time seems to go when you’re waiting? How every second, every tick of the clock seems to last forever? That was what I was thinking about as I sat impatiently on the hard, plastic chair in Dr. Marlin’s cramped office. I crossed, and then uncrossed my legs, fidgeted with the cuff of my red turtleneck sweater. I tried my best to concentrate on other things happening. The sharp turning of pages of the Teen Vogue magazine the teenager sitting next to me was reading, the smell of bubble gum like a perfume around her; the older man, scolding his little girl to quiet down, and promising her a candy bar once they left; and my sister, Caroline, sitting in the chair next to me, gripping the arm of the chair so tight her knuckles were white, as white as the unnerving colour of the walls surrounding us. Trying to comfort us, it seemed, yet doing the very opposite. They seemed to empty, so …lifeless. As if you could stare at them forever, yet never see a thing.
I heard the door open, and saw my mom and dad walk out of the room, a tall lady with her hair pulled tight in a bun, holding a clip board with a piece of paper on it, following suit. It was strange, how so much could be held in just one piece of paper; how a whole life could be decided. I couldn’t read the expression on my mother’s face, yet my father’s expression betrayed it all. I saw Caroline burst into tears and run to my mother, and cling to her like a life boat. I watched as my mother held tight to her, stroking her back like she always did when one of us cried. And my father, standing there, holding my mother’s hand, doing so little, yet saying so, so much. But I found I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Could only stare ahead, as the room seemed to grow smaller and smaller, until it seemed it was only the white walls in front of me, surrounding me, trapping me.
I longed to run up to her, to hug her and tell her I loved her, to tell her it was going to be okay. But I knew that it wasn’t going to be okay. It wasn’t. And so I looked at her, and in that one look I saw so many emotions in her eyes, I knew I didn’t need to say anything. We all understood what this meant. So, wordlessly, I put my arm around her, and knew that I was never going to forget this moment, this moment my life had changed, and how it was all in front of me, on that one piece of paper.
The next year my mom died. She had terminal cancer, died, and we could do nothing to stop it. But we had tried. We had taken her to doctors, specialists, and in pure desperation, to different doctors too, doctors who claimed they could heal her through their minds. But I think we all knew that there was nothing we could do. That sometimes, as hard as it was, we couldn’t fight it. Sometimes, she had said, the only way to move on to a future, how ever grim, or difficult it was, was to let go of the past. To let life run its own course, and to go along with it. And we watched, we watched as every day she got weaker and thinner, everyday as her hair began to fall out, and she began to lose her appetite. And we couldn’t stop it. We could only watch, and pray that she would get better. But she didn’t.
After she died, my dad left us. Not in the literal sense, but in a different way. He locked himself in his study, emerging only for dinner, which he brought, too, to his study. At first, I told myself he was only grieving, that he was still devastated over the loss of my mother. But days grew to weeks, that grew to months, that grew to years. And we never knew what he did in that study of his. We never asked, never complained. It was like one wrong thing, and he could break entirely. So Caroline and I took care of ourselves.
There were small ways I would remember my mother though. I would walk into the living room and see those hideous curtains she had insisted on buying, despite our pleas not to. Or when I walked into the garage and saw all these boxes, piled on top of each other, and remembered how my mom would never want to throw things away. “They have sentimental value.” She would say. “You never know when they might come in handy, you know.” I guess it was funny how you remember someone these ways; in things that seemed to annoying, so frustrating at the time. But that ended up meaning more to you than you could have known.
We had each had own way of grieving after she died: my dad just shut everything out; my sister cried. She cried for days, refusing to come out of her room, not to eat, not for anything. And I didn’t exactly know what to do with myself. I tried to keep everything together, to keep my family from shattering. But one night, I just cracked. And cried, cried for the first time since she died. And it was like once I started, I couldn’t stop. And after that night, I realized that if we didn’t
try harder, there was no way to keep us together, to keep us from falling and falling, and never being able to climb back up and out.
SORRY, I HAVE MORE, BUT I CAN’T ADD IT!!

My mother clasped her hands together, “Well,” she walked over to the where I was seated and sat down at the stool next to me running her hands through my hair.I shifted uncomfortably away from her resenting the fact she had touched me. My father gave me a stern look and I just rolled my eyes in protest.

“Do you remember Joyce Maude down at the country club?” Her smiled never left her face which was really starting to creep me out.

This piqued my curiosity, “You mean the really mean woman who smells like cat food all of the time and never brushes her teeth?” My lips curled with disgust.

My father gripped the edge of the counter his knuckles baring white and said with a haughty tone, “Charlene, I don’t want to ever hear you say that again, okay, Mrs. Maude is a good person with a good heart who helps out in the community.”

I rolled my eyes, “Well it’s true,” I blurted out. “She never brushes her teeth and she always smells like cats!” I shuddered with horror.

I continued, “And she is really mean, remember the last time we were at the country club and you were playing in the golf tourney with Mr. Ripperton?”

My mother was glancing back and forth between the two of us smile beginning to fade when my father said, “Yes, I do, and she made sure that all of the money that was included into the tournament was to be donated to various charities.”
I grunted and mumbled under my breath, “She also made sure you faulted on the last hole with all of her excessive coughing when it was your turn to putt,” blood still boiling with anger as I remembered my father’s saddened expression that day while Mr. Ripperton celebrated yet another Ocean Shores Tourney Victory.

“She was also sick that day with the flu,” my father said with reassurance. “Yet, she still managed to show up and give support to the otherwise—“

“It was her husband!”

His eyebrows raised then he continued, “Charlene Dawson I would have expected more empathy from you.”

I stared down at the kitchen counter, cheeks burning with frustration.

My father softened his gaze and said in a quiet tone, “Mrs. Maude is a very fragile and sick old lady and she does everything she can to make sure that people in disadvantaged neighborhoods are given food to eat, money, clothes, and a multitude of other things they may need so they may live a better life. I do not know anybody else who does more for the community than Mrs. Maude.”

He paused while my mother repositioned herself in her stool.

He continued, “If there is any one person on this planet whom I look up to the most it is definitely Mrs. Maude. I only hope to be half the person she is.”

He let the last few words bury themselves in the eeriness of silence.

There was a long pause.

My mother glanced at both us and when she was sure our conversation had subsided she spoke, “Anyway, Mrs. Maude told me that she was in search of a few good enthusiastic young teenagers who were job-hunting this summer and I recommended Charlene to take up the position as one of the care-givers.”

I sat still with bated breath and brushed my bangs out of my eyes.

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Basically, I am moving really slow through my novel. I am introducing my characters first, so the action hasn’t really happened yet and wont’t til about 65 percent of the story is finished. Do you think I should implement more action scenes at an earlier time or is this fine?

Also, whaty do you think of this excerpt anyway?

18 male=]

I know I have a lot of years still ahead of me to grow and improve so I am taking my time with this writing thing and doing my best. This is actually the first novel I have ever begun to or plan on finishing to write. Based off of real people with slight characteristic tweaks=]

Chapter Two
Albert’s mother was horrified at the sight of her son when he came staggering out into the kitchen like his father a drunk to the very end. Margery thought it was in fact her dead husband back from the grave. Why did you leave me Margery dear? C‘mon tell me? You think you were to good for me is that it? I‘ll make you pay, my sweet Margery. She had gripped the nearest thing to hand. A glass vase which she had bought at an op shop for 10 dollars a year ago. “Ma” the voice sounded slurred. She tightened her grip upon the vase. Until her knuckles were a milky white colour. As the kitchen door burst upon she let out a scream and threw the vase blindly, it smashed harmlessly against the wall. She had her eyes tightly shut only when she heard the familiar voice of her son did she open them. Her fear turned to shock. Here her one and only son stood. With a bloody knee and grinning like a stupid thug. With blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “What on earth have you been doing Albert?” she inquired her mouth was an O shape in awe. “Oh Jacob and his mates whaled on me and Mitch” Albert said off-handily. He went to sit on his chair. Margery pulled him back with surprising strength. “Wait, Jacob Tyson?” she said thoughtfully. “The one and only” Albert said solemnly turning reluctantly to meet his Mother‘s caring gaze. “Zach was the one who kicked me in the mouth” Albert added. Margery quickly dashed towards the phone. “What are you doing, Mum? You can’t ring their house. They’ll kill you!” Albert said. Lumbering over towards his Mum where she was already dialing Zach’s house. Albert watched intently at the phone’s ringing sound. He was praying that no one would be home. His prayer wasn’t granted. “Yes hello, this is Margery from up the street. My son has informed me that your son kicked Albert in the head rather in the mouth. Is this true?” Margery said inquisitively. Albert leaned closer in to the earpiece. He was virtually leaning over his Mum and one wrong imbalance could bring all his 105 kilogram weight crashing down upon her, possibly breaking her back as easily as breaking a Kit Kat in half. There was silence. Albert held his breath in suspense.

Mitch enjoyed a nice hot shower when he returned home. He mentioned nothing about the incident with Jacob’s gang. His mother was watching some boring Elvis movie and she stared like a drooling zombie at the TV screen. She only grunted a greeting and continued watching the movie. Mitch’s Dad was sitting on a stool at the window. He was peering out the shutter upon the nearly black street. A few of the street lights were already on. They looked like lighthouse beacons fruitlessly fending away the inevitable shroud that was the imminent night. “Dad” Mitch said in puzzlement as to why his Father would be staring outside the window like some sick elderly paedophile. At the sound of his voice his Dad nearly fell off his chair. He cursed wildly swinging his arms around like he was attempting to juggle imaginary balls without much luck. He eventually got himself under control. Mitch watched this with little amusement. He stared coolly at his Father who stared right back at him. His eyes showed the same fear that Mitch had seen on that very hot summers day so long ago. “I. Must be going now Mitch. Its been a long day” Mitch’s Dad said slowly getting up and shuffling awkwardly up the stairs.