Freaking Puppies ...

So, Frances, you think you can write ...

Well, we'll see about that ...

I remember I wrote a short story for a class in which I was enrolled in my early career as a college student ... if you recall, and if you don't, allow me to explain ... briefly ...

It took me over 15 years to graduate from college.

Why?

I don't know ... other than I just didn't see the hurry.

Of course, now ... well ... I see things differently, but that's the subject of another blog.

So, when I say career, I mean, career. I spent more time in college than I did on any job I've ever had in my life, any house I lived in, or in any marriage, for that matter.

But I digress.

The teacher of this class asked us to read our short stories aloud ... the man with the affinity for everything alliterate read his aloud, "some scenes seem so slow in step ..."

You think?

It was exhausting to listen to it, it felt like I was being spit at ... and I'm NOT just talking about the sibilance ...

The woman who wrote about the woman who had a friend who knew this woman who alphabetizes her spices was next. I kind of enjoyed that one ... but I think she was writing about herself.

Many ventures in over-writing later ... I read my short story.

It was about a woman, newly married, who has an affinity for nice (very nice) purses and expensive shoes, and takes great pride in being able to balance a purse on her shoulder, while holding the newspaper, mail, a grocery bag (or two) and successfully opening the front door with her keys.

It was really about amaryllis bulbs that are mysteriously delivered to the newlyweds ... and how no one knew where they came from. It was a metaphor ... for ... something. I just can't remember what.

Long story short (too late!) the bulbs lost their battle with fungus and died.

I thought it was funny.

The teacher said it was the best written story in the class, and that I was the best writer in the class.

Nice, huh?

Yes, well ...

Several weeks later a woman in the class wrote a story about puppies and a homeless woman who holds them close to her with her withered, scarred and dirty hands (I think she was even missing one finger) and ... I lost the title of the "best writer in the class."

Freaking puppies.

Soon after that ... the instructor of the class who had been working on the-next-greatest-novel-in-the-style-of-John-Irving-while-still-capturing-the-femininity-of-Anne-Tyler, was accused of plagiarism and fired from the university

And so it begins ... Puppies!