The Woman who Writes

High Hopes (Part 1)

      The brisk whisp of air traveling across the old, dusty living room only added to the anxious atmosphere which had overtaken it. Frances Addington, an aspiring author during 1922, was fidgeting with the thick cloth of her dress skirt as she bashfully waited for her friend to finish reading the first chapter of her new novel. She was becoming exceedingly uptight and atwitter the more she saw Marie (the woman reading) eyeing little sections of the pages. Little worries came to her, but the knots and twists in her stomach soon fluttered away when she saw a grin conquer Marie's expression, and a boulder-like load had escaped her shoulders.

   "Oh, Frances... This may be your best one yet," Marie Williams exclaimed, her golden-green eyes twinkling as she read through the story in her hands. "It's amazing! You ought to get it published!"

   "You think so? Do you really think they'll publish it?" Frances replied, blushing. She brushed her short, silky blonde hair behind her ear, looking down as she felt the blood rush up to her cheeks, coating them in a rosy-crimson hue.

   "Of course they will! You need to stop being so timid. How will you get known around the country if you don't step up?" Marie swung her dark hair over her shoulder in a motion of dominance. Her hands quickly reached her hips, looking like a mother scolding her child.

   Frances couldn't help but giggle, trying to hide it by floating her hand above her mouth. "You know I can't do that. A woman is supposed to be delicate and quiet. I need to respect the decisions of the men at the publishing company."

   "That may be what the men say, but it's not true, Frances. You know it. A woman can be anything she wants to be. But you.. you just let them step all over you every single time. Why?" Marie furrowed her eyebrows, her hands still in that same position. Frances went silent, keeping her eyes on her hands. She didn't want to make eye-contact-- didn't want to have to answer.

   Marie knew Frances enough. Always non-confrontational. A sharp breath escaped her lips as she slid her arms off her hips (finally) and took a seat on the sofa next to her friend. At that point, there was an awkward silence. Frances began wringing her hands together, pursing her lips together because of the profoundly uncomfortable climate of the room. She had the lingering feeling that Marie was just staring at her. The pressure was a bit crushing. Frances turned to the right, to which she was greeted with an unimpressed look from the brunette woman beside her. She let out a deep and crestfallen sigh, having gained the knowledge that she was now required to answer the question.

   "I'm not as 'dominant' as you," Frances paused, feeling a sense of shame. "I can't speak up to people, I'm not that kind of person. Just wish me good luck when I go to that publishing company, okay? It's almost all I have anymore."

   "Luck is not going to bring you success, but if you want it, then good luck Frances. I hope you find a way to understand that you're more than you take yourself to be." Marie took a long pause before remembering something else she had wanted to say, "Write me a letter on how it goes at the company, okay?"

   "Why would I send you a letter? Aren't you just going to visit me tomorrow?" Frances sarcastically commented, not taking her friends remark seriously in any way at all. A large grin pursued her face as she began laughing, thinking this was another one of Marie's shenanigans.

   "Haven't I told you? I'm leaving for France, to study there." Marie blabbered, as if the information was light as air.

   Frances went silent for a moment, as if to see if Marie would just pounce up and giggle 'Gotcha!', or 'You should have seen the look on your face!'. But there was silence. Nothing but a heinous silence which noiselessly seemed to tear away at the young author. The excruciating sensation became too much to bear.