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Well, Dorothy, now you've done it.
Soon I will inflict upon--um, introduce to the public my first extensive piece of writing in a very great while. And this will be complete, I assure you.
Dorothy's recent writing challenge was too good to pass up, and the story pretty has pretty much written itself. (Good thing, too, because the act of writing can sometimes send me over the brink).
I did take a few liberties with your opening lines, Miss Dorothy, as I wish to have my first-person narrator character write this as part of a diary/memoir. Aside from that, they're pretty much as you wrote them.
Therefore, Dorothy, I thought you might want to at least see the opening paragraphs (though they might change considerably before this is done.) It's proceeding slowly, as I'm quite out of practice, but it's proceeding:
"Such a sweet girl."
That’s what she said, Lexi.
{Note: I should point out to any poor unwilling hostage—er, student forced to read this in the future that I call my diary “Lexi.” An appropriate name, I think, as it suggests the word “lexicon”. Or “dyslexia”, depending on how you view my writing. Carry on….}
I’m sure the old lady meant that as a compliment. But I’m a boy ...
Yet for some reason I couldn’t fathom, her words felt…comforting somehow.
I should have been annoyed, or at least dismissive, chalking the error up to cataract-clouded eyes and coke-bottle glasses.
But I wasn’t, and I didn’t. Why?
My hair.
It’s my damn hair. It’s a bit long, yeah, but only long enough to cover my “taxicab-door” ears. Not to mention the unfortunate fact that short hair only draws that much more attention to my baby face. Trust me, shear this head to the scalp and I look like a fetus with shoes. Besides, it keeps my head warm during those gawd-awful Wisconsin winters.
One problem with that theory, though—it’s July. What’s my excuse now? Damn you, logic.
Besides, it still didn’t explain my reaction to the lady’s erroneous but well-meaning compliment. And did I mention “erroneous?”
Why didn’t I correct her? The words were easy enough to say: “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I’m a boy.”
Or I could have abandoned social niceties altogether and screamed, “I.AM. A. BOY, lady! Clean your glasses, you senile old bat!”
Well, maybe not that. My folks would never let me live down a breach of manners that huge, no matter how utterly, horribly wrong she may have been. Besides, it’s not what she said that’s the problem.
It’s that I LIKED what she said.
I do hope everyone will like this when it's complete. If not...well, blame Dorothy.
Comments
Looks nice...
Could you please publish it regardless of if it is finished or not? Or ... You know... Hack some kind of quick and dirty happy end in 25 words and publish it as finished ;-)
Good luck with your muse and writing!
yay!
I look forward to the story!
And look! Its a huggle and it wants to thank you too!
Huggles!