
Bomer applied the Page 69 Test to The Stalker and reported the following:
From page 69:Visit Paula Bomer's website.He walked toward the back of the loft, the bedroom and living room behind him, into the open kitchen area, which had a window that faced a cement courtyard, and a fire escape. The loft was a little over two thousand square feet. Besides the bathroom and the small bedroom, there were no enclosed spaces, and the loft retained that loft feeling. He was starting to understand the logic of this, of open space. He sat down at a small wooden table with four mismatched chairs— a thing? Eclectic? Sophia came from the front, a cup of coffee in her hand.This page does accurately introduce the reader to some critical themes of the novel. Our protagonist, the man who is known as “Doughty”, is seen casing out the apartment of a woman he just met. He’s a stalker, and that includes being a “noticer" as an early reader of mine put it, which I love. He notices square footage, he notices unique things about the apartment like the concrete bathroom floor, all things he will use to his advantage. He notices things that he can and does then use as a way to manipulate his victim. This woman is his victim, because that is what all women are to him, and he will work hard to make that so. He plays on her vulnerability, using the things he notices, and most importantly, he notices her vulnerability. He’s a man who will find your vulnerability and use it to his advantage at all times.
“You showered,” she said. “How was it?” Already searching for a compliment.
He grunted. “The cement floor is rough.”
He watched her face fall.
“I know, it’s all the rage now, cement bathrooms,” she said sheepishly. Good.
He grunted again. It was funny. His father had left him many gifts. He had the grunt, for one. A Hamilton watch.
“Do you want milk or sugar?” Now she was facing the kitchen, getting him a coffee. He could get used to this.
“Milk.”
Music was playing on a sleek black player, which in shape reminded him of his toolbox, although much smaller, a rectangular box with a radio and a CD component. A woman, singing. He flinched. “What is this music?”
“It’s Kate Bush.” She looked at him, again searchingly. He loved a hungover person. They were confused about the night before, so then they became confused about everything: the music they love, their bathroom floors. He didn’t say anything.
Writers Read: Paula Bomer (October 2012).
--Marshal Zeringue