Two Selves
Disclaimer: this is not a short story, it's a creative writing exercise. I was to imagine that two parts of me, the regualar Kim and the writing Kim, have a conversation. So here it is:
I am a Cancer, but I suspect that my writer is a Gemini. She can be this sweet, empathetic creature with eyebrows arched in innocent wonder and eyes aglow with sentiment. But she's just as often got those brows furrowed, eyes casting about for some offense with which to stoke the flames of righteous indignation.
When I met with her at Starbucks this morning she was in one of her cynical moods. "I hope Suburban Yuppie isn't contagious," she muttered as she sat down across from me at a window table. She is one to talk, with her monochromatic Gap wardrobe and season pass to Rivinia.
"You won't mind so much once you've had your Frappucino," I told her, and I'm afraid my tone was patronizing, but I bristle when she gets self-righteous. We sat with our drinks for a while, she staring at the customers with a frankness I found embarrassing, and I watching the new Barnes and Noble going up across the street. When that baby opens...
"I just finished a short story," she suddenly announced.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's about this girl named Amanda."
"Mom almost named me Amanda."
"I know. Anyway, it's about this girl, Amanda. She's really pathetic. That's pretty much what the story is about, how 'pathetic' is a vicious cycle. You know, pathetic begets pathetic...She's got this two and a half pound key chain. Only three keys, the rest are these dumb trinkets she's collected over the years. She's got a key chain from the DC zoo, one from Martha's Vineyard, two from Disney World, there's even a Celine Dion key chain."
I glanced nervously at my cute Stitch key chain, sitting on the table between us. "Why would you write a story like that?"
"Why does anybody write? I did it to express my anger at all things pathetic. I did it because I love the sound of my own voice. I did it because I wanted somebody to see what I see. And because when I don't write I begin to forget who I am."
She looked down at the cup in her hands, andI think I even heard her sigh. I gave her a moment to get her bearings and when she looked up at me she smiled and raised one expressive eyebrow. "Remember when this used to be a Hardee's and we would come here after school to eat chicken sticks and talk about music and boys?"
I am a Cancer, but I suspect that my writer is a Gemini. She can be this sweet, empathetic creature with eyebrows arched in innocent wonder and eyes aglow with sentiment. But she's just as often got those brows furrowed, eyes casting about for some offense with which to stoke the flames of righteous indignation.
When I met with her at Starbucks this morning she was in one of her cynical moods. "I hope Suburban Yuppie isn't contagious," she muttered as she sat down across from me at a window table. She is one to talk, with her monochromatic Gap wardrobe and season pass to Rivinia.
"You won't mind so much once you've had your Frappucino," I told her, and I'm afraid my tone was patronizing, but I bristle when she gets self-righteous. We sat with our drinks for a while, she staring at the customers with a frankness I found embarrassing, and I watching the new Barnes and Noble going up across the street. When that baby opens...
"I just finished a short story," she suddenly announced.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's about this girl named Amanda."
"Mom almost named me Amanda."
"I know. Anyway, it's about this girl, Amanda. She's really pathetic. That's pretty much what the story is about, how 'pathetic' is a vicious cycle. You know, pathetic begets pathetic...She's got this two and a half pound key chain. Only three keys, the rest are these dumb trinkets she's collected over the years. She's got a key chain from the DC zoo, one from Martha's Vineyard, two from Disney World, there's even a Celine Dion key chain."
I glanced nervously at my cute Stitch key chain, sitting on the table between us. "Why would you write a story like that?"
"Why does anybody write? I did it to express my anger at all things pathetic. I did it because I love the sound of my own voice. I did it because I wanted somebody to see what I see. And because when I don't write I begin to forget who I am."
She looked down at the cup in her hands, andI think I even heard her sigh. I gave her a moment to get her bearings and when she looked up at me she smiled and raised one expressive eyebrow. "Remember when this used to be a Hardee's and we would come here after school to eat chicken sticks and talk about music and boys?"
posted by Kimberly Cangelosi | 5:32 PM
6 Comments:
I defy anyone to do this exercise and not come out of it feeling like a lunatic!
Besides revealing my need for a shrink, this one demonstrates one of my heretical tendencies. In case you don't dabble in such dark arts as astrology - Cancers are sweet, sensitive, introverted and loving creatures, while Geminis are unstable nut jobs.
Side note - my writer self does not own a wardrobe of Gap clothes, nor does she possess season passes to anything. As the bread winner around here, I get to decide how the money is spent and I prefer to buy books and art supplies.
By the way, the Amanda story is a real story I wrote several years before this exercise. It was not intended to be autobiographical, but I had just re-read it and discovered some unsettling parallels between myself and the character, including the name thing, the key chain thing, and diet coke.
Kim, I really like this one! I think I would enjoy this excercise but I'm afraid my "writer self" would be super judgemental and overly suspicious of everyone. It's interesting that your "writer self" had both traits you would like to have more of, such as bold courage to just put it all on the table, as well as behaviors you mat wish you had less of, like self-righteousness.
Writing Kim has a Celine Dion key chain?!?! That's funny!
I remember when we used to go to Hardee's when we were younger. Those were the good old days!
Very interesting!
Your fist comment is hilarious; I would feel like a crazy person too if I had to do that exercise.
In the real story it's a Bruce Springsteen key chain, but what's pathetic about the Bruce?
Wow...my dad is an unstable nut job. Who knew (besides my mom)?
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