The Girl Who Dreamed

Sidey’s Weekend Theme is “disappointment”….

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She opened the little front gate with one foot, struggled up the pathway with the trim privet hedge on either side and reached the front door of the small terraced house which contained her tiny flat. She tried to get her keys from her pocket while still holding her shopping. The keys fell and when she leaned forward to pick them up she banged her forehead against the door. She swore, juggled shopping and keys and finally got the door open.

She looked at her face in the hallway mirror. There was a tiny cut on her forehead. She dabbed at it with a grubby tissue from her coat pocket, then looked down. An already bad day suddenly got a whole lot worse.

On the floor of the hallway was a large envelope addressed to her. In her own handwriting.

Another publisher, another manuscript, another disappointment.

She cursed silently. She was getting good at curses.

All her life she had dreamed of being a writer. She had tried every genre, all to no avail. Her effort at a Victorian romance had been rejected as too full of anachronisms, such as, for example, the fact that the heroine drove a Ford Anglia. Her venture into poetry was deemed to too shallow (one haiku read “Girls will all agree/the closest thing to heaven /is shopping for shoes“). Her attempt at a bodice-ripper had suffered because of the fact that she wasn’t really sure what a bodice was.

This had been her final try. Told to write about what she knew, she had written about a girl who was told to write about what she knew. Now that too had been rejected. It was time to give up.

She sighed, wiped away a tear, opened the door of number four and let herself into her writer’s garret. She’d have to stop calling it that now – she’d have to start referring to it as her crappy flat.

She pottered about the kitchenette, made herself beans on toast and sat at the table staring into space.

After a while she felt a bit better about herself. Ok, she would never be a published writer, but she was still a writer. She could write for her own amusement. She could keep a diary. She might even start a blog, although she had always sworn she would never sink so low.

She took out a pencil and got a piece of paper. She rubbed her forehead, making the small cut start to bleed again, and began to write.

“Mr and Mrs Doorley Disney Dursley of number three five four Privet Drive….”


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6 thoughts on “The Girl Who Dreamed

  1. Pingback: Two Late « I'm Not A Verse

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