"Start with the Snake:" The First Chapter of My Current Novel

Any workshop/expert/speaker/websitea/article/book on fiction writing, especially novels, will say to be sure that the first two pages develop a hook that would keep the reader turning the pages. I have often failed at that and gone for the Dickens approach of a first-person narrator and trying to create an authentic voice. Author Steven James calls this "starting with the snake," based on a story he tells. (He's not only an accomplished writer but a fabulous oral storyteller).

Recently I took a screenwriting class, where one of the bases was that all plots start with "a stranger comes to town" or "a hero goes on a journey." My books tend to follow that, whether I realized it or not. Someone is always moving to a different place, starting a new phase or adventure.

I am trying to finish the first draft of a 50-60,000 word novel set in Appalachian during 1918 by the new year. That means a lot of solitude and alienation from others, but that is the price one pays for one's art. I'm only up to 11,300 words so far, but I am in the zone. It won't be remotely good or polished, but it will be done by Friday midnight.  

So, here goes. Are you hooked in the first two pages (500 words)?

Cotella Mullins knew that once she reached the top of Piney Ridge, she could see the Goins’ place—less than a cabin, more than a shack—nestled in the holler below the Ridge. Piney Ridge loomed before her, the last stretch of her trip. Cotella had walked the ten miles from the Rose homestead near Nora since sunrise, and now the sun stood in the middle of the sky towards the southern horizon. Or as much horizon as she could see in these mountains. The sun and her stomach told it was time for dinner. Her belly growled. Festa Rose fixed a decent breakfast now that she was past her lying-in time, but that ham and eggs and biscuits this morning had long since stopped fending off Cotella’s hunger.  

Ten miles was a long trek, but about normal. A least, ten miles is what they told her. She knew the way to the Minnie and Leroy Goins’ land. The town of McClure sat halfway between the Rose place and her next stay with Minnie and her children.  A ride would have been a blessing, but the road seemed strangely empty this morning. Except the one. 

One mile or so, she figured, into her walking, she heard a wagon coming up behind her. She stopped and turned to wave, and to see if it was someone she knew. She recognized Danny Bartley, a second cousin to one of her mommas, who was it? One of the Ashby clan. She couldn’t say she knew him really, only who he was. She waved more vigorously.

Danny slowed his pair of horses as he came closer. He squinted at her but did not make signs to stop.

“Could you give me a ride, neighbor?” she called. “I’m on my way past McClure, and been walking from Harlan Rose’s place. You’re I think you’re Danny Bartley, right? Kin to Della Ashby?”

Danny came closer, his squinty eyes opened wide, and he turned his face away. “Ain’t going that way, ma’am” he mumbled, shook the reins sharply, and said “Git” to the horses, who resumed their quick trot, raising dust on the dried autumn ground that enveloped Cotella.

Cotella sighed. Tears formed. She wiped them away. Maybe he’d heard about that sickness Harlan spoke to her about that morning, something he seemed real worried about. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to look at her. It wasn’t the first time. Or the tenth, or the hundredth. She hadn’t gotten used to it yet, and didn’t know if the stares or the averted eyes were worse.