Talking “The Wacky Fringe"

Welcome to the intro video and an excerpt from the twenty-second post of my weekly serial, “Sketches from the Café Confictura.” If you’d like to share a comment, please use the comment option at the end of this excerpt. To follow the mystery of Applewood, and get recipes from Mrs. Creaverton, writing advice from Roscoe Belesprit, and fashion tips from the Fastionista, please visit www.ClarissaJeanne.com for new posts every Tuesday at 2:30 p.m. EST.

One Saturday morning a couple weeks back, we were all canvassing one of Speroton’s neighborhoods for the Loggins campaign. Violet had split off from her canvassing partner because, in Violet’s words, “her shoes were from 1993 and I doubt they were even in style then.” (Note: They weren’t from 1993. Maybe her partner just got the shoes at a really good sale, and maybe her partner thinks it’s stupid for anyone to care what shoes look like as long as they’re comfortable, especially when all you’re doing is walking door to door. Okay, yes, fine. It was me. I’m the one with the 1993 shoes. Whatever.)

But, as Violet told us all later that day back at Confictura, I wasn’t the only one offending her fashion senses that morning. When Mona Wilkinson answered her door, Violet introduced herself, and fought the instinct to shield her eyes. Poor Mona looked like a walking brick with fringe. She wore all red, from her fedora, to her long, baggy sweater (made longer by said fringe), to her wide-legged pants. In the middle of Violet’s spiel about Loggins, Fashion Furby, from Violet’s purse, took one look at Mona through its black-framed glasses and asked, “What happened to all your curves, young lady?”

Speroton, like Applewood, is of course another small town in Connecticut, which means they’re just as used to haunted things as we are.

Mona explained to them both, “I saw a movie about Coco Chanel. Her whole look was androgynous. Straight lines, ‘boyfriend’ cuts. It’s all inspired by her vision.”

Violet, after her obligatory curtsy at the Almighty Chanel’s name, said, “Oui, but you are tall and so slender. You do not want to show this off? You are a model. There are ways to wear the straight lines, but a woman never wants to hide all her femininity. I can give you a little advice, if you’d like.”

As always, Violet’s genuine way of seeing people’s most flattering attributes won the day. Mona smiled bashfully, and invited Violet in for coffee. Twenty minutes later, Violet was in front of Mona’s closet, or “the fringe and fur factory,” as Violet put it later. Practically every piece screamed so loud it was all Violet could do not to cringe and take cover.

She gave Mona a crash course in pairing complementary, not matching, pieces: straight-leg pants with a longer sweater; a faux-wrap blouse, cinched at the waist, with the wide-legged pants. “Et, we wear only one, eh, statement piece at a time. Too many statements all at once means you won’t be able to understand any of them clearly. And let’s examine maybe not wearing monochrome outfits.”

All of Violet’s advice, along with one example outfit she put together for Mona, went into her To-Go that week, which I’ve posted here. While Mona was changing, and Violet was in the kitchen finishing her coffee, Furby whispered to Violet, “She’s going to invite you. Don’t go. It’s dangerous.”

Violet didn’t have to wait long to find out what Furby meant. Mona walked into the kitchen, hand outstretched. “Here,” she said. “It’s an extra VIP pass to Paltrune’s rally today. My friend from work is trying to sway me. I can’t make up my mind between him and Loggins. You have to come with me; it’s my way of thanking you for your advice.”

“But I am firmly behind Loggins,” said Violet. “And, besides this, I live in Applewood. I cannot vote in Speroton.”

“I’ve heard his rallies are legendary. You never know what’s going to happen. You keep your phone handy, you might just catch a scuffle, and then you can send it in to Channel 2 News and they’ll play it.”

“Well,” said Violet, “who can miss carnage and their fifteen seconds of fame all in one neat package?” Violet's sarcasm is dry as sand, so poor Mona just nodded and smiled at the comment. Really, Violet was happy to finally get the chance of seeing what commonality an undecided saw in both Loggins and Paltrune.

Quietly, from Violet’s purse, Furby mumbled, “Uh-oh.”

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Talking “Leggo Your Ego"

Welcome to the intro video and an excerpt from the twenty-first post of my weekly serial, “Sketches from the Café Confictura.” If you’d like to share a comment, please use the comment option at the end of this excerpt. To follow the mystery of Applewood, and get recipes from Mrs. Creaverton, writing advice from Roscoe Belesprit, and fashion tips from the Fastionista, please visit www.ClarissaJeanne.com for new posts every Tuesday at 2:30 p.m. EST.

Schmetly jabbed a finger at his copy of Clarke’s story. “It’s so obvious what you’re doing, you passive-aggressive hack,” he said to Clarke.

Clarke shrugged. “Hey, if you see yourself in my villain, I think that says more about your psychology than about mine.”

“Your villain’s name is Brady Schmeeple. My name is Brandon Schmetly.”

“Coincidence.”

“He shaves his head and has a scraggly beard.”

“I think my exact description was ‘chrome dome and roadkill hanging from his chin.’”

“And every other character of questionable morality has a name and looks similar to mine,” said Schmetly, “while every good guy looks and sounds like you, including Prizm, which is as stupid a name for superhero as Schmeeple is for a villain.”

“Prizm is nothing like me,” said Clarke.

“The emblem on his T-shirt is a necktie.”

Clarke shot out of his seat. “It’s a cravat and you know that,” he snapped.

Finally, Roscoe sat down with his cup of tea. And he chuckled. “This is great.”

Allie glanced up. “What’s great? That we’re going to get a live demonstration of Prizm and Schmeeple’s final battle to the death?”

Roscoe said, “We can move on now.” He thought a moment, and then spoke slowly, each thought rolling like smooth cursive script. “For the longest time I came to these meetings watching such talent, from all of you, languish. There were these glimmers in your stories, and in how you fought for your stories, glimmers of heart and soul, insights into yourselves and humanity. But that mental fog was pernicious. It snuffed out those glimmers. That broke my heart. To know that beyond your pages there was such potential, so much you wanted to say, just out of reach. Talent is a most beautiful flower. If it’s not cared for and cultivated, it withers, and that beauty is forever lost to the world.”

The members of the salon smiled modestly at one another. For one lovely moment, even Clarke and Schmetly met each other’s eyes, and the two exchanged a terse but, dare I say, respectful nod.

Roscoe clapped, once. “But now we are beyond the basics of mechanics and grammar and good practices. Now we can move on to character development and stylistic devices. I have good news for you all: those glimmers are finally growing stronger. They’re becoming beacons.”

Schmetly said, “Well, can you please tell Prizm the Wonder Dork over here to please shine his beacon elsewhere?”

Apparently, the lovely moment was over.

Clarke scowled and tried to say something, but Roscoe cut him off. “Yes, Clarke, this is what I wanted to talk to you about. One thing a writer needs to balance in his stories is ego.”

“Yeah,” said Schmetly. “That means don’t make yourself the hero.”

Roscoe said, “Which Clarke has done quite literally here.”

Clarke threw up his hands. “I’m not Prizm.”

Portia said, “Oh, please. You’re wearing a T-shirt with a necktie on it right now, aren’t you?”

“I told you, it’s a crav . . . You know what? Forget it. Style is lost on you.”

Violet, who had been walking through the room, gave Clarke an understanding nod and pat on the shoulder.

“Ego’s a tricky thing,” said Roscoe. “We all have agendas when we’re writing, we want a reader to like our heroes and hate our villains, and we may even want them to like us, the author. Your characters need to have egos, of course, because that’s one of the driving forces of their choices. But an author’s got to learn how to dial back his own ego. Fear and pride are so intertwined with our egos. We don’t want to get shot down, or look stupid. We maybe don’t want to be the first one to give an opinion because people might disagree. We don’t want to make the wrong move at the wrong time, and when you’re dealing with a blank page there’s always the chance that could happen.

“But,” he said, “at some point, you have to take a chance. You’ve got to write something on that blank page and that, my friends, is why we have first drafts and our salon. Clarke, kudos to you for the strides you’ve made as a writer. Really, there’s some good stuff here.”

Clarke beamed, and then made a face at Schmetly.

“And I’m sure,” Roscoe continued, “that when we take Schmetly’s story next week, he’ll want you to be forgiving of any missteps he makes.”

Schmetly lifted his shoulder in a reluctant shrug.

“No one’s perfect, folks,” said Roscoe. “The point is that whatever fears you may have, or if your self-confidence is faltering a bit, you can’t let that show on the page. Nor can you overcompensate for it on the page. You’ve got to go for it: write honestly, and stay focused on what’s important.”

Abruptly, then, Roscoe stopped talking. He just stopped.

--To read the rest of the post, please click here to go to www.ClarissaJeanne.com/leggo_your_ego.html, and then share your comments below--

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