Contests, etc.

People: this is really, really difficult. I made a vow to post one piece of writing a week, but nothing I’m working on feels even slightly ready to be out in public. I’d rather slice off my own skin and snack on it than post something I’m not really into, but a promise is a promise, so here we go.

I wrote the piece below when I entered a fiction contest earlier this year. It was for NPR’s This American Life, and the challenge was to write a short story based on the prompt of this beginning sentence:

 She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

 I’ve never written a fictional word, ever. Only non-fiction comes out of my tap, for some reason, which is really annoying. Additionally, a friend brought this contest to my attention only about two hours before the midnight deadline, so I also had a massive time crunch on my hands.

 I calmly walked my dog in a light rain (which leaked its way into the story) and had violent internal debates about normal Sunday night bedtimes, and then figured, what the hell. So I locked myself up in my office and made stuff up for awhile, to see what that felt like. In a span of two hours, I wrote my first fiction, and entered my first contest, which felt faintly like crossing an important threshold. I lost, of course. But I still did it, and that felt important, so I’m glad.

Anyway, I promised to post something, so here you go. To see the real winner, click here.

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 She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. Once the decision was made she felt like there had never been a time when she was unsure. She strode forward with purpose, slipping on her sandals and grabbing her keys, little sparks of light beginning to roll through her veins.

Because she was not the kind of girl who remembered to think about umbrellas, or other useful things, she was unprepared for the thundering downpour that met her at the front door. It was 1 a.m., and he lived three blocks away. She paused, considering, but then laughed and ran for it through the icy spring rain, jumping over puddles filled with dropped blossoms. She slowed as she neared his building, one in a row of shabby little brownstones just like hers, crumbly and perfect. A thin ribbon of yellow light shone from around the basement curtains where he lived. She loved to peer out that window when they were hanging out, watching movies or eating Chinese food, watching people’s feet and little dogs stroll by.

Without allowing herself to think or to breathe, she rapped on his door.  The lock’s tumblers clicked over and there he was, hair crazy with sleep, wearing sweatpants and thick woolen socks. She had always loved his feet in socks.   

“What are you doing here?” he asked, bewildered, glancing at his watch. He did not open the door wide enough to invite her in. She felt a wall of panic slam into her from wherever it had been hiding.

“I finished it. Your book, I mean.”

He stared at her blankly. Her hands started to shake.

“I went to the store and got a copy right away. I read it straight through. It was so beautiful.”

He smiled then, and his shoulders dropped a bit as he leaned against the doorframe.

“You came out here this late, in the storm, to tell me you liked my book?”

“I know,” she laughed, too loud. “This is silly. But it’s your first one, and I know how much it meant to you, is all. So…here I am. Congratulations.”

She looked up at him, aching, while an inner voice berated her for punking out, again. In her head she was saucy, bold, - vivacious, even. That inner brave girl would just shove that damn door open and launch her sopping, messy body into his arms, just push him right up against the wall and show him what he meant to her.  Showing was better than talking anyway, she reasoned, stalling. It would save time and cut down on confusion. She commanded her body to do this one simple thing, but her actual self, the one she was stuck with, just couldn’t seem to get there.

He was looking at her strangely now. The longer she stood the more aware she became of her soaked pajamas, her wild ridiculousness. She saw herself as if from above, small and wet and pathetic.  

“Well, that’s it I guess,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Sorry to wake you. I’m just…I’m just so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate it. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. It’s my turn to bring the coffee.”

“Ok. Great. See you in the morning.”

She forced a bright smile and then walked away, the garden gate clanging shut behind her. After a few steps she paused, turned back to see if he was watching her go. But his door was closed, dark and tight. A sob rose up in her throat with so much force it actually hurt, but she fought hard and swallowed it.

In his book, she thought for a moment she’d seen her own face: the beautiful heroine, trapped forever with only one book to keep her company while she waited for rescue, longing for someone who could tell her a new story. For one glittering moment, she’d felt the flash of her own spirit in those pages, heard her own laugh echoing up from the binding. That flicker of recognition gave her the courage to finally make it to his door, rain and all, but no further. She just couldn’t get there.

She slipped off her sandals and walked home barefoot on dark city streets, water rushing past her ankles and down the heaving drains.