In a fit of inspiration fueled by morning optimism and a cup of coffee, I recently signed up for an on-line fiction writing course. The assignments seemed manageable (weekly writing projects due on eight consecutive Mondays) and could be completed on weekends. The price was trifling – at least compared to our household dog food and vet bill budget. I thought it would be an absorbing, and perhaps amusing, way to spend a few extra hours on Sunday afternoons.
The truth is that it was humbling. I was thrust into unfamiliar and unwelcome terrain filled with terminology and concepts I had never considered. How many protagonists was I considering? (Follow up comment by the instructor was that it appeared one of my two protagonists was more akin to an antagonist.) Who were my secondary characters and what were their characteristics and motivations? What perspective/point of view would my novel be written in? (Forget about second person or omniscient; the recommendation was to stick with either first or second person.)
I fumbled through drafting a plot summary, writing a chapter-by-chapter outline, stating my story’s theme considering characters, conflicts, and plot, my ineptitude eclipsed only by my embarrassment.
As the coursework wound down, the students were given the assignment to create a scene from the novel – an incident that helps portray the protagonist’s character – in a 500 - word essay. My mind was filled with chaotic images and ideas and literary ramblings, but I forced myself to center on an event from my protagonist’s childhood. I began to write.
I stand in the Juniors department dressing room at Macy’s, my jeans crumbled at my feet, my long-sleeve t-shirt thrown carelessly on top of them. I glance in the mirror at what others would tell me is a petite, athletic body, but all I see is a flat chest, with breasts so small, they are almost inconsequential.
I pull on the first of two dresses, a perky cotton empire-waist number with a white bodice and a red and blue pin-striped skirt. I blush as the middle-aged salesperson exclaims that I look like such a young lady. She buttons up the back for me, the roughness of her hands demonstrating her fatigue. I look at my mother, seated just outside the dressing room on a folding chair and try to read her expression. Her square jaw is immobile, her face taciturn.
I twirl slightly, watching the skirt wave gently at my knees. I raise my heels, just a bit, as though I am wearing kitten-heeled pumps. The effect gives me a momentary glimpse of someone older than my twelve years, perhaps a teenage girl who is not buying a dress for her first middle school dance.
Getting no response from my mother, I signal to the salesperson that I would like to try on the other dress, an off-white, polyester garment with a full skirt and a smocked top. I hold my arms up like a child wanting to be picked up, and she lifts the dress over my head and drops it onto my shoulders. The three-quarter length sleeves grace my slender arms, and I envision pretty bracelets on my wrists. I imagine myself wearing this dress, standing on the edge of the school gymnasium floor, giggling with other girls, being accepted into their midst.
But still, which dress is the right one? I look back at my mother, hoping to see a whisper of an expression, if not affection or approval, at least an indication of which dress she prefers. My mother’s face is impassive, not due to intention, but due to boredom. The salesperson waits, years of serving at the whim of customers counseling her to stand stilly quiet.
The piped-in music softens as the soundtrack changes. The conversation in the next dressing room drops to a whisper. I stand and stare, my eyes darting from my image in the mirror to the reflection of my mother, the stern-faced matron behind me. I lick my lips nervously, my cheeks flush. I hear an almost imperceptible high-pitched whine from deep within my ears, a keening.
I take a deep breath, and tentatively form the words, “I would like this dress,” as I motion towards the dress I have on. I turn around and watch my mother’s reaction, hoping for a flicker of a smile. My mother shrugs her shoulders and stands up.
“It’s up to you,” she says, as she turns to leave.
I know, in that moment, I made the wrong decision.
When I was done, I fussed a bit with the verbiage, frustrated that I had to delete a few sentences to comply with the word limit. I spell-checked the essay and uploaded it to the Writers.com platform for review and critique.
But I did not need feedback from the instructor. For the first time in my life, I know that what I had written was good.