Writing Exercise: The Reluctant

So now I'm doing writing exercises.  I realized that a reason I might have a problem actually sitting down and getting writing done is because I get into this "YOU MUST DO IT IF YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER" mantra and it stops being fun.  So I figure I might as well play a little bit, rather than focus on getting anything productive done.

That'll probably work.

Anyway, here's the first.  The prompt is from The 3 AM Epiphany by Brian Kiteley.  It's an exercise in point-of-view where you have to write a story using the first person "I, me, my" only twice.  So it's a first-person story, but it's kind of surprising that it's first-person.  So here goes!

The way she eats pasta is all wrong.  That little trick people do where they wind their fork like a screwdriver, spiraling up enough pasta to choke themselves, it’s disgusting.  And they smile at their ingenuity like, “Oh, now this will make my meal go faster.  It’s an American thing and it’s grotesque in a place like this.  This is an Italian restaurant, not Pizza Hut, you cow.  Here you treasure each individual hand-crafted strand of a dish from here.  Each thread tells a story, maps the hands of the pastaia, a timeline of passed-down tradition.  And here you are shoveling it down with all the grace of a forklift.

“So, then,” She smiles like she’s proud of what she’s doing, “This is pretty good!”

Yeah, excellent, it’s a good place.

It doesn’t matter, it’s not worth dwelling on.  It’s not really about the pasta.  It’s more the way she dips her head to catch whatever lump of foodstuffs she’s dug up.  Bobbing like a drunken seal dipping to catch a fish, it’s disgusting.  Her neck is much too saggy for it to be making acrobatics like that.  Whenever she lowers that massive hulk she calls a head, her neck crumples up.  Good lord, I can see her veins through that cheesecloth she calls skin.

“You’re so quiet.” She says, bits of sauce like sores on her lips.

Yes, sorry about that.

Oh, and that voice.  It deserved a double-take every time she spoke.  It sounded like she was a 40-year-old man with a drug problem.  Too deep and too hoarse.  Women are supposed to have voices soft like their bodies, delicate and low like some secret clasped close to her bosom.  But some cosmic joke left her with this horrible pastiche of an alto. 

“Ah, cool.” She hesitates like just saying that took all her mental faculty.  Probably did.  “So, is that what you do, like, for a living?”

No, it’s just a hobby.

Boring.  Monotonous.  Tiresome.  There’s not enough adjectives in the dictionary for this girl.  She really is the antithesis of the feminist movement.  She has a job, sure, doing some accounting work like every other dolt in this despicable city.  But she’s probably just waiting for the right man to come along so she can chain herself to some stove and live out her 1950s wife-slave fantasy.  It’ll probably happen, too.  There’s enough colorless people in this world that living a black-and-white life wouldn’t be too hard.  She’ll find the man with his 401k salary shackles and they’ll live happily ever after.

“Oh.” She smiles, toothy crooked smile, “Does that pay well?”

Yes.  There’s a lot of future.  Promotions and such.  It’s temporary.

“Great.” And then she turns back to herself.

That’s right, the whole world’s about you.  Your job.  Your hobbies.  Your friends.  Oh, you do yoga! How novel!  You probably clasp your hands and say Namaste after that and feel all in tune with this and that magical Eastern culture.  And all your friends are right there with you, right?  And afterwards you sip overpriced mojitos and talk about how cute the yogi’s ass is while your eyes scan the bar for potential suitors.  How cultured.  Though, with thighs like that, I’m thinking you might want to be working a little harder in class.

The check comes.  I pay, because that’s how these things go.  The gears of courtship lubricated with a men’s blood.

“Well, it was very nice meeting you.” She extends her hand.  Of course, why would you kiss the guy who just bought you eighteen dollars worth of linguine. 

Yes, we should get together again sometime.

“Oh, sure, yeah.” She waves, that hairy paw of a hand, “Bye!”

And she’s gone, her ass bobbing behind her like a parade float.  Good riddance, now that horrible chemical perfume smell is gone.

I’ll probably call in a few days.  It’s a social necessity after all.  It’s so hard meeting people.