That I Would Be Good

Chapter Twenty

“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” ― Confucius

     I sat across from Dolores in her office.  She was reading over the outline for my story.  It had taken me only a few minutes to write one up.  It seemed that Dolores was taking forever to read it though.  There wasn’t even a full outline on the paper, just a partial one.

     I’d never done an outline before so I had done my best and gotten to five chapters before the inspirational feeling wore out and I was back to a writer’s block.  Instead of wasting time trying to come up with the rest of how I wanted to write my own personal story out, I decided to show Dolores the progress I had made.

      Now sitting here, trying to make myself look busy while she read over the piece of paper, I was doubting my idea for a good story.  Sure, maybe it would be original, but maybe too original.  Who would want to read about a nobody’s life? 

      Reading about celebrities tragedies and good times was interesting because they were famous.  But someone like me… no.  Nobody would want to read about my life.  It wouldn’t seem “amazing” or “inspirational”.  Everyone goes through hard times.  It’s the people who seem to have the perfect life that have the most interesting tragedies.  My life was far from perfect.  One look at me and a blind man could tell you my life wasn’t perfect.  But whose was?

      Unconsciously I bit the cuticles on the side of my thumb off, and gnawed on them nervously while Dolores kept reading.  I couldn’t believe she was really taking this long to read a few simple sentences.  I didn’t question it though because she had a brain tumor and it was probably slowing down her comprehension skills.

      Clearing her throat a few times, she finally dragged her gaze away from the paper, and looked at me over her crescent moon glasses.  She studied me for a few minutes.  I stared back hoping she’d break the awkward silence and staring contest. 

       What were her thoughts on my idea for a story?  Dolores had never written a biography or anything remotely close to being based on a true story. She probably didn’t like it.  Dolores wasn’t the most opened minded when it came to stories. 

     It was rare to see her reading something printed after 1940.  She liked the classics, and said no one would ever be able to match up to how the classical writers wrote all those years ago.  What people wrote now was nonsense to her.  Well almost everything was.

      “So?” I asked, finally not being able to take it anymore and broke the silence.

      She shrugged, and set the paper down, sliding it across the desk for me to pick up.  I picked it up, and held it gingerly in my hands as if it would turn into ashes if I grasped it too tight.

      “Are you going to say anything about it?” I asked desperately.

     “Do you like the idea?” she asked, stacking a pile of papers neatly together on her desk.  She then continued tidying up her desk waiting for me to reply.

       “I do…” I trailed off.  “You don’t?”

      She chuckled and looked up at me as she slammed the drawer to her desk shut loudly.  “It’s not for me to like!  I’m not the one who’s going to be writing it.”

      “Then why did you want to see my outline?”  I demanded, anger replacing the nervousness I had just been feeling moments before.

         “To see if you taking this seriously or not,” she replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “You’re a novice writer, you’re lucky someone at my level even considered looking over your outline.”