Advanced Fiction Writing, Assignment 1

Assignment 1 has been returned to me! Check it out, and see if you agree with the grade I received.

Author’s Note:   The concept behind the first assignment in my writing class was to differentiate between plot and story. Plot was defined as the action part of a work, while story was defined as the emotional part of a work. We were asked to write two short pieces, one with only plot elements, and the other with only story elements. This assignment was harder than I thought it would be! The focus was not supposed to be on detail, which is why the pieces are very sparse. I decided to focus on two typical aspects of my life, housecleaning (plot) and getting ready for the day (story). Here are my attempts at this assignment.

Grade Received:  A- (Apparently, I missed the part of the assignment where the writings were supposed to be about the same thing, but I got high marks for the quality of the writing from the prof.)

Plot

She flipped on the stereo and selected a CD to play. A bouncy, poppy 60s band—local boys done good—and began to sing along as the music blared. Then she began her cleaning routine.

She grabbed the duster and began to deftly whisk away the dust that had settled over the furniture over the last week.

Next came the floors. First, the bona fide hardwood floors. They require special care, and she adroitly applied the specific cleaning and polishing solution to buff them to a high shine. Then came the laminate floors. First, a thorough vacuuming, then a once-over with a Swiffer mop.

The CD changed, and another 60s legend, Jimi Hendrix, began to wail forth on his guitar, his supersonic melodies driving the tempo of her cleaning routine. Now onto the bathrooms.

After scrubbing down the showers and tubs, the counters got a hearty buffing, and the toilets got a healthy dose of cleaning. The mirrors were polished to a high, clear shine, and the floors were thoroughly swept and mopped.

Having completed all of this work in under three hours, she sat and rested a bit, feeling a sense of accomplishment.

Story

She stepped out of the shower and glanced upon her muted reflection in the foggy glass. The warmth of the steam that filled the bathroom and rose subtly from her moist skin filled her with a sense of serenity.

She began to pull out her arsenal of beauty products and apply them. One layer of lotion, then another. As she rubbed them into her warm, velvety epidermis, she smiled. This was her secret to appearing so deceptively youthful, and it gave her a secret satisfaction to know that she didn’t look at all like her thirty years. At least not to anyone who mattered, like the clerk at the local gas station who always playfully asked to see her driver’s license and then marveled at how her chronological age never seemed to match her complexion. She laughed as she remembered his quasi-boldness and how he could never quite bring himself to ask for her number, no matter how many times she showed up there.

She combed and dried her short auburn hair, humming a pleasant John Coltrane melody that always put her in a good mood. Next came her perfume, Mediterranean by Elizabeth Arden.

As she spritzed it on her neck and wrists, she marveled at the strong psychological link between scent and memory.

She’d first worn the scent when she’d vacationed in New Orleans, and the fresh, vibrant aroma never ceased to awaken the inquisitive wonder and excitement she’d felt during her entire time there. It had made her feel peacefully, pleasantly, attentively alive. The perfume smelled of the booze, the beads, the music, the canals, the spicy food, the ocean, the sunlight, the breeze, the history, and the whole laissez-faire, fun-loving attitude of the whole city.

She thought back on the first night she wore the scent. That was the first night she tried fried alligator, greasy but good, at the family-style Cajun restaurant where there was the zydeco band and dancing. She’d danced that night with a kind, somewhat comely, young local man dressed in a red and blue plaid shirt and dark blue denim. At the end of the dance, she smiled and giggled as he thanked her for the Cajun two-step and told her that were he not already attached to another girl, she’d make some lucky fellow a fine little Cajun queen.

As the mirror cleared and she finished her beauty routine, she stared herself in the eye in the mirror and gave a shy half-smile.

I would make a good little Cajun queen, she mused, I would.