Engage the reader with the story (page critique)

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Now then. Time for the Page Critique. First I’ll present the page without comment, then I’ll offer my thoughts and a redline. If you choose to offer your own thoughts, please be polite. We aim to be positive and helpful.

Random numbers were generated, and thanks to Gill91, whose page is below.

First 250 words
Title: A Season on the Piste
Genre: Memoir (written as a novel)

Puddles reflected the amber street-lights, proceed with caution they winked. Roger, my partner of ten years, clambered from the taxi, his once lithe physique lurking beneath recent excesses. The silver Skoda merged back into the traffic, disappearing, like our former lives. Our new life, together, would launch from this inauspicious Reading car park.
Late November dusk chilled my naked neck where auburn locks had lain only days before. Short tufts now demonstrated a low maintenance style, reducing the opportunity for wet hair to freeze in Alpine temperatures, with little time for lengthy blow-dries. I had yet to embrace my grey, the tinges reflected an absence of fripperies, like hair-dye, in this frugal lifestyle.
“Is this a massive mistake?” I said. “Is it too late to go home?”
“Yep,” Roger replied.
My chest tightened, I exhaled slowly, tried to lower tense shoulders, I could do this, another long breath out. We lingered on the periphery of a throng, well-travelled suitcases alluded to a common factor, packed in one life, to be opened in another. Through the gloom multi-layered figures stomped the ground in over-sized boots, cosy hats bobbed and arms draped around shoulders.
“They look fairly normal, I don’t feel so dowdy now.”
“Why did you?” Roger asked.
“You know, glitz, glamour, beautiful people and all that stuff.”
“No.”
He scrutinised the replenishing snake of coaches, diesel fumes invaded nostrils and engines drowned conversations as a succession of willing victims climbed the illuminated steps.

There are some evocative images in this opening page, and I like that the conversation between the couple feels natural rather than trying to smush exposition in or forcing things. (Though I had trouble understanding some of it).

That said, I have two main concerns. First, I think there’s a bit of a missed opportunity here to let the reader more into the story and engage us around a particular question or motivation or something, whether in the story as a whole (what fresh start is this?) or within this individual scene (what are they doing at this car park?). Yes, we have the sense of a couple who is embarking on a new life, but what about it? What is new about it, beyond a presumably Alpine setting?

As I often say, all doesn’t need to be revealed straightaway, but I worry that authors often try too hard to create a mystery at the start of novels and then just end up not really letting the reader into the story entirely. Be judicious about your mysteries and try to engage the reader with what’s motivating your protagonists.

My second main concern is that the prose feels needlessly convoluted and overstuffed. Strive for clarity, read your sentences out loud to catch this, and bring your good ideas into sharper relief.

Here’s my redline:

First 250 words
Title: A Season on the Piste
Genre: Memoir (written as a novel)

Puddles reflected the amber street-lights,. Proceed with caution, they winked. Roger, my partner of ten years [good crisply delivered context], clambered from the taxi, his once lithe physique lurking beneath recent excesses. The silver Skoda merged back into the traffic, disappearing, like our former lives [This metaphor feels a little forced. Their lives are merging back into traffic?]. Our new life, together, would launch from this inauspicious Reading car park. [This feels like a missed opportunity. Why no hint of what they’re embarking on, whether holistically or within this particular scene? Does this need to stay so zoomed out?]
Late November dusk chilled my naked neck, where auburn locks had lain only days before. Short tufts now demonstrated a my low maintenance style, reducing the opportunity for chance my wet hair to would freeze in the Alpine temperatures, with little time for lengthy blow-dries [This sentence feels a little overstuffed]. I had yet to embrace my grey, but the tinges reflected an absence of fripperies, like hair-dye, in this frugal lifestyle.
“Is this a massive mistake?” I said. “Is it too late to go home?” [Another missed opportunity. What specifically is on her mind here? Sharpen the stakes]
“Yep,” Roger replied.
My chest tightened, I exhaled slowly, I tried to lower my tense shoulders. I could do this, another long breath out [This feels overstuffed. Avoid generic gestures and “gesture explosions.”]. We lingered on the periphery of a throng, well-travelled suitcases alluded to a common factor, packed in one life, to be opened in another [There’s a good idea here but this feels needlessly convoluted]. Through the gloom multi-layered figures in cosy hats stomped the ground in over-sized boots, cosy hats bobbed and arms draped around shoulders.
“They look fairly normal, I don’t feel so dowdy now.”
“Why did you?” Roger asked. [It took me a bit to unpack this question]
“You know, glitz, glamour, beautiful people and all that stuff.”
“No.” [I don’t understand what he’s saying “no” to]
He scrutinised the replenishing snake of coaches,. Diesel fumes invaded nostrils and engines drowned conversations as a succession of willing victims climbed the illuminated steps. [Needlessly convoluted, this feels like a break in the perspective?]

Thanks again to Gill91!

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Art: Ivan Fedorovich Choultsé: After the snowfall