…Excerpt

E is also for exhausted. I have had quite the day running hither and yon, including *6 hours* at the new doctor’s office. However, it was actually a wonderful experience, and I am [cautiously] optimistic that this was the right place to go, and that they will be able to help me. (More on that in another post.)

A giant thank you to everyone who sent me kind, encouraging words, whether by writing comments on the post itself or on Facebook, or sending me PMs or texts. I appreciate it all more than you know.

Now on to our regularly scheduled programming…

I’m sure y’all have noticed that I’ve had absolutely no plan for this challenge. I’ve just written each letter as I’ve gone along, and I only have, like, 3 of the 26 letters decided.

In the writing world, they call that a ‘pantser’, someone who works by the seat of the pants.

This also applies to the novel I’ve been working on since…  *mumble mumble*. I LOVE my main character, Jessie, her spunk and determination, her sarcasm, her humor. And people who have read bit and pieces of her story over the years have loved her as well. (So they tell me.)

A segment of it, So Much for That, even won an award in the Georgia Writers 2003 Members Contest (click the link to read it on my main site). Another short story from Jessie’s life, There is Such a Thing as Too Much Orange, was published in the Orange Karen Anthology.

And given that I don’t usually post bits of my fiction / creative writing on my blog (even tho I feel I’m a prose writer/poet more so than an essayist), and because, quite frankly, it’s a bit easier, especially after the emotional wring-out I got from writing my D post and the long day, I thought I’d share an excerpt from her story. It directly follows what happens in the story in the anthology. I hope you enjoy. And, for the love of god(dess) and all that is holy, please let me know if you see any typos, and if you have any constructive criticism, feel free to send it my way.

I found myself nervously getting ready for a real date with Quillan. Our first.

I teased my hair til it stood a good six inches off my head and added a white bow for good measure, piled on the blue eyeshadow, and pulled on a short jean skirt. I finally settled on some brown sandals with the teeniest of heel, and a mint-green cotton top with the sleeves rolled up to my shoulders. Then I waited. I paced. I checked my make-up. I plucked a stray eyebrow. And I paced some more.

Right on time, Quillan knocked. I opened the door to find him holding out a bouquet of flowers wrapped in ribbon and tied with a bow. Orange flowers. All of ’em. Even the baby’s breath. Even the ribbon.

“Hello Jessie,” he said.

“Erm, uh, hi,” I stammered back. I’d never actually had a guy bring me flowers, and I stood there like a dolt.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Oh yes, do!” I said, suddenly galvanized into action. I took the proffered arrangement, stuck my nose into the flowers, and gestured him in. “What are these?” I recognized the dyed baby’s breath and roses, but not anything else.

“I’m not sure.” He stepped around me. “I just told the florist to make it orange. I think I heard ‘poppy’ and ‘marigold’ and I just nodded.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” I said. I had no idea where that came from. “Let me just put these in some water. You’re welcome to have a seat.”

I bustled into my tiny kitchen. I didn’t have a vase, so I pulled out a plastic pitcher and filled it with water.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” Quillan said. In the pseudo-privacy of the kitchen, while carefully removing the ribbon and paper and arranging the bouquet, I grimaced, imagining what he saw: the rickety bookshelf full of worn paperbacks and a few knick-knacks, the bare walls, the frayed white curtains, the threadbare blue loveseat.

“Thanks!” I said cheerily, returning to the living room with the pitcher, which I carefully placed on the faux-wood coffee table. Quill had settled into the couch – all of him, so I pulled out my “vintage” yellow vinyl chair and perched on the edge. I tried not to stare at him, but found it difficult. He’d combed his hair into a neat ponytail, and it looked like he’d even trimmed his beard. Or gelled it or something. He wore a pair of blue jeans, black dress shoes, and a blue-and-white striped button-down shirt. He looked cute. Super-cute.

I noticed him looking me over too. I fidgeted under his stare, hoping he liked what he saw. I clenched my hands in my lap to keep from raking my fingers through my hair or chewing on my nails.

“Do you like tie?” he asked.

“Um, tie? Like the clothing?” I asked.

In response, he laughed. “No, Thai. Like food from Thailand. The country.”

I felt my cheeks redden. I don’t know what it was, but Quillan brought out the stupid in me. All of it.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I’ve never had it.”

“If you don’t like it, I promise I’ll take you somewhere else.”

“Deal.”

He stood up, stepped around the coffee table, and offered me his arm. “M’lady?”

I found myself giggling as I stood, took his arm, and he led me to his car and deposited me in my seat. I managed to fasten the belt without any help.

“I’m having déjà vu,” I told him once he’d put his seatbelt on and started the engine.

“Like you’ve been here before?”

“Yeah, like that.”

He laughed. I decided I really liked his laugh. “I’m having that same feeling.”

“Oh, good. So not just me, then?” I wanted to smack myself on the forehead to keep the inanities from pouring out of my mouth, but figured Quillan would surely notice. So I didn’t.

“No. Not just you.”

“Good then.” Egads. I couldn’t stop myself.

“So, you’ve never had Thai food, huh?” he asked. I had never been more thankful for a topic change in my life, and wondered why I hadn’t thought to ask about it.

“Nope. What’s it like?”

As he started telling me all about Thai food – how it’s mostly noodles, and spices and curries, and not hot, and usually prepared right when you order it – I tried to surreptitiously study him. He looked comfortable driving – his right hand held the steering wheel, and his left arm rested in his lap. He checked the mirrors constantly, but it seemed like casual checks, not like he was worried someone was about to hit us. His hair had been tied back with a thin brown leather string, and the ends poked out of the side of his ponytail. Other than a few receipts in the ashtray, the car was clean.

“And here we are,” he concluded, pulling into a parking lot and then a corner space. I leaned down to get my purse out from under my feet, and when I sat up, he was opening the car door. For me.

“Oh,” I said, startled at how quickly he’d gotten around the car. “Um, thanks.” I clenched my teeth. Will my battiness never end? “I’m not used to someone opening the car door for me.”

He leaned in and gave me his hand, which I took. “You’re not? Guys should always open the door for you.”

I immediately forgot whatever I said. Thankfully. As I stood, I smoothed down my skirt and hung my purse on my shoulder. Quillan smiled, and leaned in to kiss me. A deep, passionate kiss that sucked all of the moisture out of my mouth. And I responded by pulling away. And laughing. Heartily.

I have no idea why.

He just leaned back, surveyed me, and smiled. And leaned back in for another kiss.

I came up laughing. Again. “So, you choose to park in this dark corner so you could kiss me? And I’m ruining it?”

“Pretty much.” He kissed me again. That time, I managed to control my giggles, and put my arms around his neck, and kissed him back.

Damn.

He closed the car door, took my hand, and led me into the restaurant.

This goes without saying, I hope, but these here words and story are mine. Please don’t steal them. Thanks!