In Which I tell a Story

My brother and I entered a short story contest through NYC Midnight, and I had a week to write a story of no more than 2,500 words in the genre of historical fiction. The assigned topic was "a dare." Here's what I came up with.

 

The Ball

Civility goes by the wayside when a normally reserved young woman runs into her erstwhile boyfriend's mother. 

Margaret woke up with a lump in her throat and a gnawing suspicion that she'd done something untoward the night before. She sat up with a start. Oh good heavens, she thought. It wasn't something she'd done, but something she'd promised to do.

She looked over at Pamela, still sleeping beside her, and wondered how on earth she would get through the day. Although Margaret was not generally given to impulsive behavior, she had a competitive streak a mile wide, and one that her mother often scolded her for indulging.

Unfortunately, when her cousin Fanny was concerned, Margaret usually couldn't resist.

"Pamela," Margaret said, nudging her sister. "Wake up. Wake up at once!"

"What?" Pamela stirred. A deep breath. "Is this pertaining to whatever you and Fanny were whispering about last night? You know we all noticed, even father."

"Well, I'm afraid I've done it this time. She's pushed me too far, she has!"

"Oh come on, then. Out with it. If you're going to wake me up for this you might at least let me in on what's going on," Pamela said. She drew her dressing gown around her as she got out of bed and smoothed her hair, which was puffy from the night's rest.

Margaret stood at the window, pulling at her hands and shifting her weight from foot to foot. "It's just. It's about the ball tonight."

"Oh of course, it must be about the ball." At 24, Pamela was a veteran of balls, and although she was looking forward to the evening, it was with less optimism than her younger sister. The last ball she'd attended had turned mortifying when she inadvertently stepped to another partner after a particularly complicated dance turn. She'd insisted her father practice steps with her for several nights over the previous week to avoid another such debacle. She wasn't getting any younger, after all.

"Well, you know how Fanny can be so insufferable. She knows she'll be better dressed tonight. I certainly know she will. That it should even be in question is ridiculous! And I daresay if our father had 10,000 pounds a year we'd be better dressed, too. But no matter, being Fanny, she's gone and made me enter a pact with her that whichever one of us is deemed to have the least flattering outfit will have to complete a dare."

"Margaret! A dare! What on earth were you thinking?" Pamela said. "For one thing, that's completely silly - how could such a thing even be determined?"

"I know, I know, it was so wicked of me. But I simply cannot back down from her! If I had not accepted she would not have stopped talking about it for weeks! We've determined that Mrs. Dudley shall be the one to decide."

"Mrs. Dudley!" Pamela couldn't help but laugh. "Well, I suppose if you must go about subjecting to yourself to such derision, Mrs. Dudley will do the job rather entertainingly."

 

Mrs. Dudley, the preacher's wife, had a well-earned reputation for being unable to hold her tongue in her later years. Most recently she'd pronounced the new baby of one of the town of Shropshire's most well-to-do families as looking "fresh from the bog."

"Pamela, don't you want to know what the dare is?," Margaret said. Pamela, who was now making the bed, motioned with her hand for Margaret to keep going. "Whoever loses has to ask Mr. Crawford to dance."

Pamela paused briefly before resuming straightening the pillows. "Asking a gentleman to dance! Have you lost your mind? And Mr. Crawford?," she inquired. "How did he get wrapped up in this? The poor man will be lucky if he even manages to make it through the door without being pecked to death by his mother."

"Well," Margaret tittered. "He's just so maddeningly silent. We're not even sure he can dance! And he is after all an eligible bachelor with 5,000 pounds a year. Socially challenged or not, Fanny and I mean to find out whether he has any hope of being a viable one is all. And it will make such good practice for proper courtship!"

"Fair enough, I suppose," said Pamela. She was old enough to know that there were things more important than dancing. "But I don't expect you'll have an easy time with it."

"What, are you assuming I'll be deemed the less attractive? I'll turn it out just fine, velvet and lace ribbons or no!" At 16, Margaret Woodhouse had fine features and a rosy complexion that was the envy of Shropshire. Fanny Croft, on the other hand, while certainly lovely, didn't quite draw the attention the blond haired Margaret commanded. The girls were the same age, but Fanny, a redhead, possessed an elegance that was on the whole more contrived than Margaret's, much of whose allure arose from a warmth and playfulness of spirit.

"Of course not, darling," Pamela said. "I'm assuming that Fanny won't hold up her end of the pact is all."

Margaret smiled. "We shall see about that."

The day passed slowly but at last the girls wrapped up their sewing and reading and began to prepare for the ball. They were to ride to the nearby Chatsworth estate via the carriage of Fanny's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Croft, who would also serve as their chaperones. 

"Pamela," Margaret said as she spun around in front of her sister, "do you think I'll pass muster?"

Pamela looked up and gave her a thorough once over. Though not quite as luminous as her younger sister, she had her own reputation as a dark and intimidating beauty with an intellect to match. "You look as lovely as I've ever seen you," she said, casting an admiring gaze on Margaret's stylish take on a blue column dress. "And I believe all your attention to sewing has paid off." Margaret hugged her sister and held out her hands to her. "And you, Pamela, you look so gay! I am so happy to see it!"

Pamela blushed. She'd picked out a dress of the palest silver, which she hoped it would provide a lightening effect to contrast her black eyes and hair. She smiled and looked away. "I do sometimes try, you know."

"I know you do, I know! And you do succeed."

The carriage ride passed quickly as the five chattered in anticipation. Fanny wore a long gown of moss green velvet that was sure to draw many compliments. Despite their rivalry, she and Margaret held hands throughout the journey. Whatever the outcome of their competition, they would enjoy themselves.

Pamela, on the other hand, grew more and more anxious with each clop of the horses' hooves. She had not admitted it to her sister, but she was more than a little curious about whether Mr. Crawford could or would dance. Perhaps he wasn't a noted conversationalist, but he was indeed an eligible bachelor, and it had not ever escaped Pamela's notice.

 

What Margaret didn't know was that he and Pamela had conducted a brief courtship the year prior that was known to only the two of them and his mother. In Pamela's estimation, the pernicious Mrs. Crawford had been the problem - after Henry Crawford's older sister had gotten married and moved north, the widower Mrs. Crawford had selfishly insisted that Henry pay her undue attention, and was always inventing tasks and errands that took up any free time he should have had for courting. She knew that if Henry married, his wife would become head of the Crawford estate, and she did not intend to give up stewardship of her home. Mr. Crawford, it seemed, could not see through this and as Pamela couldn't figure out a way to tactfully point it out without him raising objections, their courtship had come to an end when he failed to meet her as promised for a morning walk the previous September.

They found the ball in full procession when they arrived, and the girls set off in search of Mrs. Dudley. Pamela looked around and didn't see any sign of Mr. Crawford, which prompted both relief and disappointment. She vowed to keep her eyes open for other prospects.

 

She followed close behind Fanny and Margaret, whom she overheard making a scathing remark about a girl from a neighboring town whose frock was deemed plain and uninspiring. At last they came upon Mrs. Dudley, who was tucking into a bread pudding and ignoring the woman standing next to her, whose back was turned. Just as the girls came upon the ladies, Mrs. Dudley's friend turned around and Pamela was unnerved to discover the companion was none other than Mrs. Crawford, the corners of whose mouth turned slightly upward in a tight little smile when she spotted Pamela.

"Hello Mrs. Dudley," Margaret started, with a curtsy to the old woman. "Is it not a breathtaking evening? The first ball of 1813, fancy that!"

Mrs. Dudley smacked the pudding about in her mouth before responding. "Yes, child, and rather better now that I've gotten a spot of nourishment. I feel like I've been on my feet for hours already." Fanny and Pamela curtsied as well as Mrs. Crawford looked on. "You do know Mrs. William Crawford, I'm sure?," Mrs. Dudley asked. "Mr. Henry Crawford is milling about here somewhere, isn't he Mrs. Crawford? Where is he, hiding in the larder?"

Fanny and Margaret stifled a laugh as Mrs. Crawford stiffened and replied, "Certainly he's here. But he's a very busy man now with Mr. William Crawford gone these long years. He has much to do to keep up the household, you know. He's very tired and I don't expect we'll stay long. We have affairs in the morning to attend to."

Fanny, giving her sweetest smile, cast a sideways glance at Margaret before addressing Mrs. Dudley. "Mrs. Dudley, we are wondering if you will do us a small favor. Margaret and I, we've so looked forward to tonight that we've both sworn to do our absolute best to dress for the occasion, and we are wondering if you might decide for us who has put forth the most worthy effort?"

Mrs. Dudley turned her full attention to the girls. "Well, I suppose I might proffer an opinion. But why waste your time with me? I'm quite certain that by the end of the night you'll have your outcome decided by the number of young men who ask you to dance." Mrs. Crawford looked on with interest.

"Oh, but Mrs. Dudley, they can hardly be counted upon to deliver an objective verdict, can they? We need the opinion of a lady!," said Margaret.

Mrs. Dudley began to look the both of them over when Mrs. Crawford interjected, now smiling rather too graciously. "Girls, you two are perfect visions - Ms. Croft, your green dress fits with your red hair and complexion perfectly. And Ms. Margaret, how well the cut of your dress suits your figure." Here she turned and fixed a pointed look upon Pamela, who was standing behind the rivals. "Where I think you might have better focused your attention is on your sister." Pamela, who'd again been searching the room for Mr. Crawford, snapped to attention. "My dear," Mrs. Crawford continued, "I believe you could have used something to make you a little more, well, interesting, don't you think?"

Margaret and Fanny turned to Pamela, who colored slightly from the flash of anger with which she bore the remark. "I'm afraid, Mrs. Crawford, that I haven't the gift for fashion that my sister and cousin possess." The horrid old woman had influenced Mr. Crawford after all!

"Nonsense, dear, you're just about as pretty as the others," Mrs. Dudley said. "So what if you're a good bit older. Surely someone will ask for your hand in a waltz."

Margaret and Fanny took Pamela's hands and led her away, bidding the ladies goodnight as they fled.

"Pamela," Margaret said, laughing, "I am so dreadfully sorry, I didn't expect that to happen. What a miserable woman that Mrs. Crawford is! I'd no idea!"

"Nor I,"  said Fanny. "I always felt she must be a sad woman for having lost her husband too early."

"Well," said Pamela. "I suppose it shows yet again that one never knows what cunning is lurking in the hearts of Englishwomen." The three laughed, but Pamela was seething.

"So," said Margaret, "will you do it?"

"Do what?," said Pamela.

"Don't be daft," Margaret cried. "Will you take the dare? Will you find out once and for all if Mr. Crawford is capable of dancing?" Margaret and Fanny looked on expectantly.

Pamela considered this for a moment. "I daresay I will," she said, to the girls' delight. And with that, they set out for the dancehall.

She spotted him a short while later, standing next to a few other gentlemen of mutual acquaintance. "Margaret," she said, whispering into her sister's ear. "Where is Mrs. Crawford? Do you see her anywhere?"

"Hmmm. Oh! There she is, she's getting two glasses of punch! Oh! now she's heading toward Mr. Crawford!"

"Perfect," said Pamela. She pinched her cheeks quickly and walked over to where he was standing. She could now see Mrs. Crawford heading toward them out of the corner of her eye.

A lady doesn't ask a gentleman to dance, Pamela thought. But then, nor does a lady stand in the way of the natural order of things.

As she sidled up to Mr. Henry Crawford, Ms. Pamela Davenport held out her hand. "Mr. Crawford, it is so lovely to see you," she said. "It's been too long, I think." As she curtsied, she stuck her back foot out ever so slightly more than necessary, causing the approaching Mrs. Crawford to stumble over it and spill her punch out onto her dress and the floor. The gentlemen standing next to them caught her swiftly, but Mr. Crawford, now flustered and more than a little distracted by the sight of Pamela's exposed decolletage, barely registered his mother's slip.

"I don't suppose you could entertain an old friend for a dance, could you?," Pamela said. She turned briefly to smile at Mrs. Crawford as he led her toward the dance floor.

 

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Week two of twenty-ten

First off, I had a great holiday - spent some quality time with my family in Atlanta, which included my nine month old niece, Maddie, and my seven month old niece, Samantha - and it was good medicine. I didn't do a whole lot other than eat a lot of shitty junk food, act like a crazed baby lady with my nieces, see some old friends, watch movies, take walks, and read Anne of Green Gables on my iPhone. (Again.) And then I had a brief stopover in Breckenridge to visit my youngest sister, where I capped off two weeks of mild excess with a few more days of thorough excess in the style that only 24 year olds in a ski town can muster. Suffice it to say that by the time I got back to LA I was ready to return to a more spartan existence.

And now we're two weeks into the new year, and so far, I'm happy. I accomplished so little in December that I was basically desperate to crawl out of the holiday slump, but I did manage to make one important decision last month, and that was on a medium: screenwriting. I'd been agonizing over where to focus my writing energies, and truthfully, if the media world weren't in an outright clusterfucked state, I would have just started applying like crazy to editorial jobs. I did apply to a few, in fact, and I actually think I'd make a decent journalist, but those jobs are in very short supply, and the future there is so uncertain it freaks even me out. So I thought and thought about what I wanted to do, and then made my decision when I came across a great intro to screenwriting program.

Class has only been in session for one week, but I'm already knee deep in the writing. Over my head, really. I've seen thousands of movies, and I even took an intro to screenwriting class at UCLA a few years ago, but this is a serious workshop, and my head is spinning. The class is mostly filled with other people from the entertainment business - a director, a lighting guy, some actors, and even one working writer - so I'm feeling a little intimidated due to my naivete. But besides the occasional moment of panic that I have no business doing this, I'm enjoying it and learning a lot. By the end of eight weeks I'm going to churn out the world's shittiest first draft, but it will be a complete draft!

I don't know if this will stick - I guess you never really know if anything will - but I've told myself I'll give it a year and a few scripts and see how it goes. My one real weakness as I can see it now is that I've only ever read a handful of scripts, so I really don't have a strong feel for how a good one looks, but I'm banking on the feel for story and dialogue that I do have from reading thousands and thousands of books to carry me through. That and the frantic screenplay cramming I'm doing right now. 

And on the matter of the day job, I made a decision there too, which in some ways is even scarier. I'm going to wait tables and/or bartend. I'm worried about going back to it after such a long time away, but you can't beat the money, and I figure it'll be nice to have something that gets me out around people to even out the solitude of the writing. I know it will be jarring and a far cry from the time when I had an office and could close the door when I was in a bad mood, but I have to give it a try. I just hope I can get my ego to cooperate.

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To Tweet or not to Tweet

So, yes, I posted recently about my Twitter loving ways, and yes, I still love it, but I've decided to take a break from it.

Why? In the interest of clearing the decks for the New Year, I want to be more efficient with my time. And, honestly, Twitter, while really valuable to me, is a time suck of epic proportions. I could spend all day, and have, going down the rabbit hole of links, suggestions, articles, lists, whatever. I have a mind that never gets tired of new information, often to my own detriment.

So I asked my sister to change my password so that I literally cannot log in. But here's the thing: I miss it. I miss it a lot. I am still getting emails about people following me, so I go and look at their profiles, and wish I was around to see what they're getting up to. It's been all of, what, three days? 

I'm thinking I won't last a week...trick will be to limit my Twitter consumption. We'll see how it goes.

 

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So long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, goodnight 2009

Between breakups, breakdowns, old jobs, new jobs, road trips, broken bones, broken hearts, meditations, revelations, friends gained, friends lost, new babies and more, 2009 might have been the most eventful one of my life. I can't say I'm sorry to see it go, but I do think I'll look back on this one as a watershed year, and I think that as painful as it was, I learned lessons and took steps that will make me stronger and happier than ever.

Here's to 2010 - may it be happy, healthy, and prosperous for everyone.

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Decisions, decisions and the frittering away of time

Things I've done while procrastinating writing this post:

• Read a blog post by David Byrne on the ramifications of digitization and computer networking (interesting and scary)
• Tried to find online evidence of David Byrne's sexuality (indeterminate, as far as I can tell)
• Listened to the Police song "Miss Gradenko", which was in my head when I woke up this morning (decent little song that I haven't heard or thought of in 20 years or so)
• Read the NY Times review for "Up in the Air", which I saw at the Arclight this afternoon (I give it a B+/A-)
• Read a bunch of crap on Twitter, including a story about penniless brothers who were living in a cave in Hungary and who have just inherited a billion dollars from their long lost granddaughter (!!!)
• Listened to Ode to Joy (uplifting)
• Read a bunch of "best of 2009" music roundups (a colossal waste of time once you've read a few, as the indie music media/blogosphere is mostly a big echo chamber)
• Sought out the MySpace page of local LA band Warpaint, based on recommendation from aforementioned lists (decent)

All told today, I've probably spent five hours meandering aimlessly online, and, truth be told, that is probably less time than usual. It's the result of a combination of a surfeit of time, chronic laziness and plain old fear. Time because I'm not working right now. Laziness because I'm not being disciplined about the use of my time - because I have so much of it, I squander it, whereas if it were more limited, I would probably be more efficient and not, say, spend hours reading blogs that give advice to writers (ha.) Fear because, let's face it, I'm terrified of this whole business of being a writer.

I have known that writing is a calling for me since I was pretty young - probably since second grade, when I "published" my first story, a mystery revolving around an international jewel thief. (My aunt, a lawyer, had her secretary type it up and bind copies for my family.) In the years since, I've stumbled in and out of writing - I've taken classes in creative writing, screenwriting, memoir and "writing from a spiritual perspective"; I've had at least four blogs that have never really taken off; I've written freelance articles for a few publications here and there; and I've entered (and lost) short story writing contests. But I've never been able to commit to a regular writing practice, and that is my biggest struggle of all.

And now here I am, having completely burned out on my career in public relations (which is a story in its own right, but for another time,) and feeling like the only thing I'm sure of is that I want to focus on the craft of writing. Great, right? Right. But then there's the problem of making a living. And here's where it gets tricky. I know for a fact that I need a full time job so that I stay out among the living and so that my time is structured, so this is no lament that I don't want to work. Rather, my dilemma is deciding exactly how - do I try to get paid to write in some way? Or do I go for a job that pays the bills, is not too mentally taxing, and allows me to write whatever I want in my free time?

More to come.

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Job posting of the day

Check out this website I found at losangeles.craigslist.org

"taking care of udders"???

Must be the weed.

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Wine is not vegan, for fuck's sake. What, you didn't know that?

So, I've been volunteering at a literacy organization in Echo Park, and they regularly host drop in drinking nights, during which they invite volunteers to meet up for drinks at a bar of interest. Since this week's bar was just down the road and since I would have otherwise spent the night watching Pride and Prejudice for the 47th time, I decided to check it out.

I knew within two minutes of walking in that I was doomed. First of all, most of the attendees were in their early 20s, which would have been fine, but they were also the kind of socially awkward, aspiring hipster twenty-somethings that used to wreak havoc on my self-esteem, and hence my social life. I immediately had a (very unpleasant) flashback to being 22 and having a vague sense that something I was wearing was hopelessly uncool in ways I could never even imagine. What's funny is that I have spent the last ten years living in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and LA, epicenters of hipster attitude, and I have long since learned how to not let it bother me. It is, after all, a manifestation of profound insecurity on the part of the perpetrator, and over the years I've found it's easiest to deal with it by keeping in mind the fact that deep down these people are absolutely terrified that someone will discover that 311 was their favorite band until well into college.

But man, there is something about these early 20s hipsters that still kills me. They're especially vicious -- it's as though they're testing out how badly they can behave without making other hipsters think they're total assholes. (That can be pretty bad.) And although, to be fair, there were only a couple of these types present tonight, they were enough to make the whole affair insufferable. The general disinterest each person displayed during introductions was annoying, but things didn't get really bad until the table talk turned to beers. One girl mentions that not all beer is vegan - did we know that? Fortunately we were at a German bar, however, and they had centuries old quality standards to ensure that our brews would remain untainted by animal products of any kind. Nods around the table. So I'll drink beer, this same girl continues, but not wine. Wine is not vegan, because some winemakers use a filter during processing that is made out of fish parts. It's very sad.

Mind you, this was all stated in the most supercilious way possible, and accompanied by looks around the table to make sure that we were all aware of this unfortunate fact. If I had had a taser available to me at this point, I would have straight tased this bitch. WINE IS NOT VEGAN! You pretentious loser! You pompous, humorless dreg of humanity! Oh, to think of all the fish that have suffered for all the wine we humans have been consuming for the past several millennia. So heartless, so tragic.

And in this way, I was undone. No, I didn't laugh and ask her to repeat herself to make sure I heard it correctly. No, I didn't look down my nose at her and make a snide remark about how I felt sorry for her and all that she was missing. Instead, I went into a fugue state for a full five minutes. The world went black. I had a vague sense that I should say something to make it clear that I was not complicit in this nonsense, but the enormity of the reality that some people actually hold this view stunned me silly. Stupefied me. I'm still processing it.

As soon as I recovered my senses, I laid down a ten and fled the scene. And thus ended this week's (and possibly this entire month's) attempt at networking with like-minded people. I got home, poured a glass of cab and set about hoping 2010 would bring more wine and less assholes.

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