Last night I had to do a rewrite on a short story fiction piece, the problem is I like the story as it is. My instructor says it needs more conflict, yada yada. Why is it that when a professor tells you to write a short story 10-12 pages long, then when he critques it he wants you to add all this other information, that would seem to defeat the purpose of a short story.
After I did some editing, not much. I emailed it to my friend who called me and said she loved it and thought it was very funny and true to life. Here's my problem she's my friend so would she tell me if it wasn't any good? I'm not talking about wow this should be published good, just good enough as it is, written from a no-writing person. The piece is too long to post all of it here but I wanted to put a little bit. This is written as a seven day journal entry, written from a housewife's point of view.
The Best Part of Me
Expertly chiseled, bronzed to perfection, flawless, and he was all mine. The gods themselves could not have made a finer specimen. He came towards me, taking my hand, pressing my palm to his all too perfect lips. I trembled with anticipation. He leaned down, cupping my neck; I knew this would be the most absolutely perfect kiss. He smiled and said,
“Mommy, Mommy, Justin hit me!”
Just like that the daydream was over. My ten year old son had once again interrupted my solitude because of some injustice being put upon him by one of his brothers. It’s amazing how easy it is for him to revert to acting like a three year old when he needs me to be on his side. Telling him to act his age seems to fall on deaf ears.
Still kneeling over the toilet with my cleaning brush in hand, I again reconsidered my plan to clean the toilets on Mondays. It seemed like a good idea to have a plan and attack, what I hated to do most first, but now looking up I notice the paint on the walls is badly chipping and the shower curtain should have been changed years ago, perhaps I should have saved the bathrooms for last. Hey, look there, I found my other earring. It does pay to sit on a floor and look around. Of course now I also see that I should never let my boys use my bathroom again. Do they really not know how to aim? How hard can it be, hold, aim and fire. The target is even big enough to stuff a soccer ball in to; I should know I’ve had to pry one out before.
Who came up with the term summer vacation? Who is it a vacation for? Not for moms, perhaps it is meant to be a break specifically for the teachers. Which I can completely understand, I have three students at home; I’m not sure what I would do with thirty for eight hours. Still I will have to do some great planning to keep them all busy for next three months. I need to plan for myself as well, what is I want to accomplish this summer, write a novel, lose weight, plant a garden or paint the house, the possibilities are endless.
I should get up and see if anyone really did get hurt in the ongoing battle (of epic proportion I’m sure). I love my kids don’t get me wrong but the name “Mom” well let’s just say it is way over used in this home. I do believe that every sentence starts with the word “Mom” and most often it will end with it, though usually in the latter it is said with attitude. I think all names get old after a while maybe that is why I get my kids’ names mixed up all the time, it’s not because I forget it is a secret plan of mine to stir things up and keep everyone on their toes. Mom is better than Shirley I have to admit, I am a mom not a grandma and my name has always reminded me of an old lady’s name. I want a young fresh name like Angelina or Scarlett now those names will cause some excitement in someone’s imagination.
Mondays are dull; though there is something about Monday’s I do look forward to and that is in four days I will have my date night with my main guy. You would think that Monday’s would bring some excitement, the promise of things to come, not the beginning of a long work week. I feel blessed not be part of the hustle of a nine to five job but I still put in my forty plus hours. There are parts of my day I get to look forward to like a few private moments cleaning a bathroom and daydreaming of romance and faraway places. I am a realist, so I do get that romance novels do not equal the real deal but wouldn’t it be nice. Not once in those dollar ninety-nine books, do people use the bathroom. Not one of those perfect men belch, fart or snore. Don’t forget the sex, it is to die for and last for hours, sometimes even days! The couple is never interrupted by screaming banshees’ (otherwise known as my children). They almost never have to eat, unless it is part of the great sex.
Slowly I get up from my cramped position between the tub and the toilet. Opening the bathroom door I do notice that it is way too quiet, something is horribly wrong. Carefully and probably too slowly (sparing myself for what’s to come) I go into the living room. There standing in the middle of the floor is the culprit, Justin, tied up and wrapped in toilet paper like a mummy. His eyes are screaming panic or murder, not really sure. I move to release him and think of something I should do first. Being a good mother I grab the camera and take a few photos. At this point I am fairly certain he is mad, of course it doesn’t help that the other two war criminals are now standing at the top of the stairs hurling down all kinds of encouragement and vague insults. I should be mad but I unravel the mummy and stuff the toilet paper in a garbage bag, calling the two mummifiers to the room, I handed them the bag and said they could use the toilet paper because we were not wasteful. Friday night better get here quick.