Pleasant Plumeria #12

"It just lacks...a personal touch. It doesn't relate to the reader."

Melissa watched her editor shuffle through the pages of her latest manuscript. As his carefully manicured hands wounded her writing with angry red slashes, she tried to muster up some feeling other than detachment.

"Barry, it's about my life. How much more personal does it get?" She heard her voice. It sounded hollow even to her.

Putting the pages aside, his gaze finally met hers. "Melissa, there's a difference between spitting out some words about your past and crafting a story that people want to read. You have to be relateable. Your audience has to care. Frankly, I'm having a hard time believing that you even care."

She knew she was supposed to feel something at this revelation. Shame, perhaps, or at least embarrassment at being found out. "Of course I care," she lied. "I just think that good, clean writing is what catches soemone's attention. And the stories are interesting."

Frustrated, her editor flipped back to the beginning section of her manuscript. "I'm not saying that the stories aren't interesting. They have amazing potential, but they all fall flat. This bit about the chickens--that could go so many places, but it's just a few pages of clucking and feathers. Is that really how you remember it?"

"It's..." Melissa trailed off as she thought back, her mind filled with images of filthy coops and sharp claws scratching at her young skin.

"Missy, get yer ass in there and muck out the cages!"

"But papa, they're pecking at me, OW, they're clawing me good!"

"Guess you better be quick about then, ain't ya?"

"It's how it was, Barry. Chickens, cages, feathers, eggs, shit. There you go. What else am I supposed to say?"

He removed his eyeglasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "You're supposed to say how you felt. How it felt as a little girl to be given chores that you hated, that hurt you. You're supposed to move the reader, make your audience feel for you."

"We lived on a farm, don't you think people can figure it out?"

"No! That's what makes a good writer, don't expect people to figure it out, you SHOW not TELL."

"Show me the eggs, Missy. You ain't got 'em do ya?"

"Papa, I'm sorry, but everytime I got close, them chickens done cut me up! I'm bleeding something awful, it's like my legs is crying red tears."

"Shut up with the fancy talk and go wash up. You ain't got nowhere to go tonight, so you can help yer ma with dinner."

"Fine, Barry, that's one example. What else? And how flowery does the language have to be?"

"I'm not asking for flowers, Melissa. What about the party story? You wrote 'My parents always figured I wasn't very social. I even considered wrecking the house when they were out of town to try and fool them.' Don't you think you could say it differently to make it more interesting?"

"When are y'all coming back then?"

"HA! Why, ya planning on throwing some sorta bash while we're out?"

"No, ma, I just wanna know when to expect you. How long you think the fair'll be?"

"Long enough for you to tend the chickens while we're showing the other animals."

"But pa, you said you was taking 'em with! I thought--"

"Ya thought wrong, din't ya?"

"But I hate those durn things! Papa, mama, please!"

"Missy, those durn things pay for the clothes on yer back and that fancy ass school you always ramble on about. Show some respect and listen to your parents!"

SLAM

"Well I hate Y'ALL TOO!!"

Melissa glanced at the clock, growing increasingly tired of the meeting with her editor. "Look Barry, I'm telling you that I put myself into it. It's the story of a farm girl who grew up and moved to the big city. That's me."

"Yeah, but I don't FEEL it. And I don't think you do, either. What happened after your parents left? This just skips ahead, don't you think people will want to know?"

Color flushed into her cheeks. For the first time in a long time, Melissa looked up at Barry with feeling--real emotion in her eyes. "I like the book the way it is, Barry. End of story."

Feeding off of the first burst of humanity he'd seen from his client, Barry dug in. "I don't think it will sell, Melissa. Make the reader care, make ME care!"

"They DIED, okay?! They died on the way back from the God Damn state fair." Tears coursed down her cheeks, dark splotches littering the front of her silk blouse. "The last thing I did was tell them I hated them and then smashed some ugly figurines. And then I was alone. No one left but me and the God Damn chickens that I hated, no one left to talk to but myself. That's what I live with every day, Barry. How do I put that out there?"

Feeling more moved, more connected to her than he ever had, Barry's voice became gentle, coaxing. "You just did, Missy, if you just put that on paper--"

But that was all it took to shut her down. Her eyes, which just seconds before had been filled with tears, her whole heart on display, went cold and vacant once more. Blinking rapidly, she stood up, smoothed her skirt and headed for the door. "Do what you want with the book, Barry, I don't really care."

"But--"

"And don't you ever, EVER call me Missy again."