Bon Bons to Yoga Pants

Chapter 43-Not Great

"Well, Lexie. I read over the file you sent me last week. The one with all the memories of you and your father."

Miss Bliss pulled her massive horn-rimmed glasses off to look me right in the eye, the way she usually did. Bangles of jewelry dripped from her neck in a gaudy display of turquoise and bright blue. Her gray bouffant had lost some of its puff, leaving her head looking smaller than usual.

"And?" I asked, swallowing back a lump of nervousness. Writing about Dad had exhausted me for over two days. Although a week had passed since the fateful all-night-binge-write, it seemed like an eternity. Getting her email in response to set up this meeting had been both terrifying and a relief.

"And I think it's your best writing, compared to the other short stories you showed me before."

I exhaled in relief. "Wonderful. I thought we could submit it to competition originating from the college here. It would look really nice on my resume to win something so close to home, I think."

She leaned back in her seat and bit her glasses with the front of her teeth, speaking through them with impressive clarity. "Listen. It's good writing, Lexie. But it's not great. Not great enough to win and help you get that internship, anyway."

Any sense of hope floundered, making me feel like someone had just pulled a string through my heart. I'd worked so hard on those memories. I'd dredged through every memory of Dad that I ever had, recalling some things I'd forgotten because they were simply too painful. At the time it had felt like putting my heart into a blender and turning it on high. Now Miss Bliss had just taken the lid off and pieces of me were flying everywhere.

"What? I-I don't understand."

"It's endearing, really, especially considering you lost him so tragically not long ago, but it is, in effect, just a stream-of-consciousness. There's no real story. Sure, there's talent in the words and the phrasing, but no voice."

"The whole thing is in my voice!"

Miss Bliss didn't even flinch at the high-pitched defensiveness of my response. Her bright pink gum smacked between her teeth.

"No, it's not. It's a story being told. It's not Lexie."

I swallowed. "I don't know how to make it more Lexie. I . . . Miss Bliss this was the hardest thing I've ever written." My voice became small, even desperate. "It took everything I had."

We locked eyes. Miss Bliss's eyes softened infinitesimally around the edges.

"These are memories of a little girl that adored her father," she said, shucking aside the hard-nosed teacher. "You're not a little girl anymore, Lexie. You're a woman. A beautiful one. A strong one. One who has clearly endured a lot of trauma that you're just now realizing. You want to win this competition? Show me that girl. She's a hell of a lot more interesting than a few memories."

"But—"

"Real writing is raw and edgy. It's full of voice and honesty, and when you're doing it, it should hurt like hell. This is full of honesty and sure, some pain. But there's no grittiness, no voice. Give me a reason to read."

My heart pitter-pattered in my chest, and it took all my strength to keep from crying. How could it not be good enough? I averted my eyes.

"I don't know what else to write. I don't . . . I don't know."

Miss Bliss tossed a pile of papers at me. The title paper read Dad and Me: Memories of My Father. She'd printed off the manuscript I'd sent and edited it by hand. Comments, corrections, and the blood of the most ruthless college professor I'd ever met decorated the first page.