Novel Journey Critiques

Remember, our suggestions are just that—suggestions. The wise author will use discernment and pick up what works for him/her and ignore what doesn't. Our hope is you and this author, who bravely subbed his/her work, will benefit.

Our critique code is as follows:
( ) = suggest deleting
[ ] = sugges adding
** = comments
gws=goes without saying
rue=resist the urge to explain
im= interior monologue

Original Chapter

Perhaps I’m a heathen but I don’t feel like going to church this morning. Not that I have anything else to do, and I didn’t do anything exciting last night that would give me an excuse to sleep in. Nothing fun ever happens in my life.

Maybe that’s the problem.

My days are fairly rote. I rise and go to work, then return home, have a quiet meal by myself, watch television, and by ten I’m in bed. If not earlier. Nothing changes in my life, it seems. Even my weekends are bland. I’ve gone to the same church for years, sat in the same pew, said hi to the same people, and nothing ever happens. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. If I weren’t scheduled to sing a special today, I’d consider going to another church. Some place that would give me a jolt, big enough to jumpstart my life.

The clock doesn’t seem to realize my dilemma; otherwise, it wouldn’t keep buzzing, reminding me to move. Move. I hate that word. But I force myself to roll out of bed, throw my blankets into place, and head for the shower. Lathering my body and hair feels like a chore. My arms are heavy. As I rinse, the spray works the kinks out of my tired muscles. I begin to feel better about the day, my life.

Toweling my hair dry, (my hair, another long, depressing subject) I go to my closet and study my choices. Clothes line the rack but I don’t have anything to wear. Nothing new—the story of my life. I think about wearing my blue dress, then cringe. I wore that last Sunday. I can just hear the gossip now—Doesn’t she have anything else? I know it sounds silly, but does anyone really keep track of how often you wear the same clothes? Is there someone assigned for that duty every week at church? Is there a clothes patrol? Do they track the styles of the day on their little attendance clipboard? “Oh, Susie is here and she wore that outfit last month . . . Checkmark.” In my mind, I know this sounds ridiculous, and would even be funny if I didn’t know that Pam could be the committee leader of the clothes patrol. She does keep track. Well . . . sort of. She’s my best friend, and I hate to mention this, but there have been days when she has leaned over and whispered, “Look at Mindy, didn’t she wear that same thing two weeks ago?” Or, “Look at Sally, isn’t that the same dress her mother wore at Thursday’s fellowship?” It wasn’t like a really big deal. I’m sure Mindy did her laundry at least once during those two weeks, and Sally probably just liked her mother’s dress. But if Pam recalled that information about Mindy and Sally, what do other people remember about me?

I struggle to remember what I’d worn two weeks ago as I sift through the clothes in my closet and wonder if I should call Pam for details. But that would alert her to my problem. I figure I can handle this and look at my clothes again. Whatever I wore to church two weeks ago leaves me drawing a blank. It’s as if my memory has been wiped clean. With a deep sigh, I consider posting an erasable board inside my closet and make a daily schedule for my clothes. I could call it my fashion menu. Then I could make sure each piece of clothing was worn at appropriate intervals so as to not offend the clothes patrol.

I finally decide on a fifties-style dress I purchased on EBay. It has frills around the hem and is hued in a delicious color that reminds me of elbow-dripping peaches. Kind of an orangey-yellowish-pink color. I’d bought it to kind of spice up my life and I love the style. To tone it down some, make it more suitable for a dowdy soul such as myself, I’d shortened the billowing sleeves and made a belt for it but I really can’t remember wearing it yet. And I’ve had it for months. Maybe I shouldn’t wear it; my inner angst agrees. But a girl has to spruce up her life sometime. Before I talk myself out of it, I take the dress out of the closet and lay it on my bed. Then I go and blow-dry my hair.

What an ordeal! My hair has a mind of its own! I clip the stubborn mop of straight, dishwater blond/brown nothingness back from my face, and am aghast at the sight. So I try spraying and molding, and ratting and curling. I get the back looking good and turn to find a Chow has taken residence in my mirror. I rinse my hair and begin again, only to pull it back in barrettes. Why people always compliment my hair, I’ll never know. After I dress and put on my makeup, (I only have to apply it twice), I twirl in front of the full-length mirror. In the dim light of my bedroom, I don’t look so bad. I like the way the ruffled hem flutters against my legs. It feels like silken caresses just below my knee. And the color seems to complement my complexion (what there is of it. Thank you, Almay.) It even seems to brighten the blond highlights I added to my otherwise mousey brown hair.

I look good. Not that any of the single guys at church will notice. Usually, I’m just part of the scenery, the part that no one really looks at, or they’ve grown so accustomed to me they pay no attention. I’m nothing special. Pam says it’s because I’m too quiet, that I won’t cross the room to talk to someone; I make them cross the room to talk to me. And guys don’t. They have enough girls willing to chase them that they have no interest in.