Post by jfwordsmith on May 15, 2017 11:22:46 GMT -5
Version 2. 254 words. Thanks for the notes so far!
My mother would have spent less money on my sixteenth birthday present if she had remembered it in the first place. It wasn’t her fault, though. My birthday came and went on June 1st, when the air was hot and green-smelling, the sun was strong, and my father had been dead exactly one month.
Since Dad chose to check out of Hotel Life on a permanent basis, Mom had been preoccupied with widowhood and parenting. So she flipped her calendar page over one day late. And cried.
Because she missed my birthday, that “mom guilt” she was always writing about for online magazines compelled her to call my school counselor Dr. Barbash (whom my entire family referred to as Call-Me-Connie). That was how I came home from school on June 2nd, dumped my bag on the counter, and discovered Call-Me-Connie blabbed to my mother about Camp Bonaventure.
And — with a pause for emphasis — how she was going to spring for it for my belated birthday present.
“I’m not going,” I said, opening the kitchen cabinet.
The hope etched on her face fizzled. “Call-Me-Connie says it’s amazing, Lila.”
My familiar friend, Panic, stomped her way into my chest, settling her curvaceous hips into my sternum. “She also says that Madonna is talentless. Plus, Call-Me-Connie has sweaty palms.” My mother would consider the Madonna statement blasphemy, and sweaty palms skeeve her out.
“Call-Me-Connie’s lack of musical taste — and unfortunate sweating malady — hardly affect her ability to judge what would make you feel better.”
"Still. Not going."
**
VERSION 1
Hi everyone,
Here's my first 278 words -- looking to eliminate a sentence here/there or end it about 28 words earlier!
My mother would have spent less money on my sixteenth birthday present if she had remembered the occasion in the first place. It wasn’t her fault, though. Not really. My birthday came and went on June 1, when the air was hot and green-smelling, the sun was strong, and my father had been dead exactly one month.
And so my mom, who was a bit slow on the uptake since Dad chose to check out of Hotel Life on a permanent basis, flipped her calendar page over one day late. And cried.
She’d done a lot of crying lately.
Because she missed my birthday, that “mom guilt” she was always writing about for online magazines compelled her to call my school counselor Dr. Barbash (whom we all referred to as Call-Me-Connie). That was how I came home from school on the afternoon of June 2nd, dumped my bag on the counter, and discovered that Call-Me-Connie blabbed to my mother about Camp Bonaventure.
And how my mother thought it was the perfect experience for me.
And — with a pause for emphasis — how she was going to spring for it for my belated birthday present.
“I’m not going,” I said, opening the kitchen cabinet.
The hope etched on her face fizzled. “Call-Me-Connie says it’s amazing.”
I fought every muscle in my own face to prevent my eyes from rolling. “She also says that Madonna is the root of all evil. Plus, Call-Me-Connie has sweaty palms.” My mother would consider the Madonna statement blasphemy, and sweaty palms skeeve her out.
“Call-Me-Connie’s lack of musical prowess — and unfortunate sweating malady — hardly weight her ability to judge what would make you feel better.”
My mother would have spent less money on my sixteenth birthday present if she had remembered it in the first place. It wasn’t her fault, though. My birthday came and went on June 1st, when the air was hot and green-smelling, the sun was strong, and my father had been dead exactly one month.
Since Dad chose to check out of Hotel Life on a permanent basis, Mom had been preoccupied with widowhood and parenting. So she flipped her calendar page over one day late. And cried.
Because she missed my birthday, that “mom guilt” she was always writing about for online magazines compelled her to call my school counselor Dr. Barbash (whom my entire family referred to as Call-Me-Connie). That was how I came home from school on June 2nd, dumped my bag on the counter, and discovered Call-Me-Connie blabbed to my mother about Camp Bonaventure.
And — with a pause for emphasis — how she was going to spring for it for my belated birthday present.
“I’m not going,” I said, opening the kitchen cabinet.
The hope etched on her face fizzled. “Call-Me-Connie says it’s amazing, Lila.”
My familiar friend, Panic, stomped her way into my chest, settling her curvaceous hips into my sternum. “She also says that Madonna is talentless. Plus, Call-Me-Connie has sweaty palms.” My mother would consider the Madonna statement blasphemy, and sweaty palms skeeve her out.
“Call-Me-Connie’s lack of musical taste — and unfortunate sweating malady — hardly affect her ability to judge what would make you feel better.”
"Still. Not going."
**
VERSION 1
Hi everyone,
Here's my first 278 words -- looking to eliminate a sentence here/there or end it about 28 words earlier!
My mother would have spent less money on my sixteenth birthday present if she had remembered the occasion in the first place. It wasn’t her fault, though. Not really. My birthday came and went on June 1, when the air was hot and green-smelling, the sun was strong, and my father had been dead exactly one month.
And so my mom, who was a bit slow on the uptake since Dad chose to check out of Hotel Life on a permanent basis, flipped her calendar page over one day late. And cried.
She’d done a lot of crying lately.
Because she missed my birthday, that “mom guilt” she was always writing about for online magazines compelled her to call my school counselor Dr. Barbash (whom we all referred to as Call-Me-Connie). That was how I came home from school on the afternoon of June 2nd, dumped my bag on the counter, and discovered that Call-Me-Connie blabbed to my mother about Camp Bonaventure.
And how my mother thought it was the perfect experience for me.
And — with a pause for emphasis — how she was going to spring for it for my belated birthday present.
“I’m not going,” I said, opening the kitchen cabinet.
The hope etched on her face fizzled. “Call-Me-Connie says it’s amazing.”
I fought every muscle in my own face to prevent my eyes from rolling. “She also says that Madonna is the root of all evil. Plus, Call-Me-Connie has sweaty palms.” My mother would consider the Madonna statement blasphemy, and sweaty palms skeeve her out.
“Call-Me-Connie’s lack of musical prowess — and unfortunate sweating malady — hardly weight her ability to judge what would make you feel better.”
