Unseasoned Beauty

Recently I was sent a couple of copies of my first published short-story. I had been expecting it in the mail, but not quite anticipating it. I've been jumping on and off of the "I want to be a writer," and "I'm an author" train for sometime now. About two months ago I started pushing myself to really get some writing done. No matter what type. Requesting the Volume 16 of Tellus 2008 may have been a bit of my own vanity rearing it's head, but I also wanted to do it for motivation, encouragement, and proof that I could do it. When I received the package in the mail I held it in both of my hands, glancing over the envelope that all of a sudden meant more to me than a past memory of maybe. It meant that I would be faced with reality, possible obligation, and most of all self critiquing. You know that time in your life when you feel like anything could happen and you could be anything you want to be? When everything you do is promising to your parents and your really close friends? Well I lived in that place for a long time. In fact, I still take mental journeys there via daydreams and testimonies of others. Now, remember those times when those possibilities proved to be less likely? You know, that silent let down that festers in self-doubt and lack of faith. That's where I am whenever I see my past works. It could be reading a short-story I wrote when I was 26 or watching myself play in a junior varsity basketball game at the age of 16, it never fails that all of the mistakes I made or opportunities I missed are counted and weighing on me with frustration, as if the event happened just yesterday. Why did I pick that title? Did I have to miss every lay-up that game? So there I was, holding another reality check in the palms of my hands. Of course I remembered the story. It was my story. What I didn't remember was that the panel thought it was only worthy of 3rd place next to a story about an ironically OSHA informed boss and a warm father-daughter relationship. Here we go... I rubbed my hand on the smooth cover and steadily turned to page 63, just one number short of a number whose digits when added together equal 10. I started to sweat. I was all of a sudden back in San Luis Obispo, California in the front of a room full of strangers, and my husband who I knew at the time. I slowly traveled back in time with Serv, Aria, Uncle Esbie, Granny, Uncle Ely, and Mencie. *sigh* I did it. I decided that I would not give myself any feedback right after the nerve-wracking read. I laid on my bed with my hands behind my head, palms up. Okay. That wasn't so bad and I can do it. I can be a writer. Here comes the obligation. My eyes filled with tears as I remembered how proud my spouse was after the reading, the two requests of autographs, the approaches by several strangers who enjoyed the story and the reading especially, the enthusiasm of the Director of the English department to send me two extra copies at my now Florida residence five years later. I owed it to myself to pursue a career in something that I loved, that could touch others. I owed it to the art world. I can be a writer. I am responsible to the atmosphere... Okay, maybe I'm taking it a little too far. So now for self-critiquing. I gave the story to a sibling whose honest opinion I didn't know I didn't really want. She didn't get it. Instead of it being a multicultural piece there were too many unanswered questions and too much vagueness in the actions and responses of the characters. *sigh* I was missing the details. I remembered Maya Angelou saying that if it is a hard read for your audience it is not good work, in so many words. I was hurt, annoyed, but eager to prove myself to her, myself, and the world. I let a couple of other family members read my story and opinions ranged from either not being interested enough to engage in the story, to fully getting it and thinking I was on to something. If there is one thing I gained from this experience it is that I can... and I will. "Unseasoned Beauty" takes a glimpse inside a family that is confronted with being honest with their embrace of a stranger. To survive what may be their last dinner alone members of the family become brave, fearful, drift down memory lane, and some silent. In a sense I had become the family I had imagined five years ago. I was confronted with my destiny, my talent, my passion. It took drifting down memory lane for me to break out of my fearfulness and be brave. My silence was paining me the same way that theirs was their new visitor. It is time! I may be biased in saying this, but "Unseasoned Beauty" really is a charming tale that has characters that most can identify with. To peak in on this family request this short story by writing to tellus@cuesta.edu and request a copy of Volume 16 Tellus 2008 with the short-story "Unseasoned Beauty." I appreciate all of your support and I can't wait to share more work with you all.