My guest today is award-winning writer Anne Schroeder. Her latest release, Maria Ines, is a novel about an Indian girl in California who grows up under the tyranny and greed of Spanish, Mexican and Yanqui invaders.
On a lighter note, Anne writes this fun fantasy, “My Inner Fashionista” about herself as a young girl:
My inner writer is an eight-year-old fashionista. The alarm goes off, the coffee perks and my computer boots to a wardrobe of possibilities. With the first sentence, I’m standing in my mother’s closet, trying on the strapless formal from her nightclub days, her pink high heels and stockings with the lines up the back, the paper rose that she pinned on her collar. I stuff the cups with tissue paper and mull the possibilities. In my mind, my younger sisters are sitting on the bed, watching with bright eyes, believing that I am fearless. The amazing thing is, I feel that way. They watch and wow while I try on Mom’s fur stole, the one with the little fox heads draping down the back. The one that’s so off-limits that they’ve never ever touched it. But I do. I describe its luster in waves of scrumptious adjectives until they overcome their fear and hold out their hands.
They feel the pelt. But I am bored with the little foxes. After all, I am the storyteller and this story has already been told. I can’t wait to skip off to show my dad the grown-up, glamorous version of what I hope to be one day. It doesn’t matter that everything’s still lying in a heap on the floor. I’m on to a new project.
But not so fast. Enter my mom. Mom looks at my outfit and nods with a slight smile, but all she sees is the mess. She has a dozen ideas about cleaning the mess, and I don’t like any of them. I sigh dramatically. Mutter beneath my breath, but my complaints fall on unresponsive ears. Eventually I start to work, but I’m not happy.
Cleaning up is tedious. It erodes my fashionista high. My mother’s clothes are no longer stylish or clever; in fact I don’t remember what I even liked about them. They’re stupid, out of date, lame, and I wish I’d never even opened the closet door. I’ll never be voluptuous like my mother; what’s the use? And my audience? My sisters disappeared at the first yelp from my mother’s lungs. I’m left alone to clean up with no one to notice all my hard work. And not even a “thank you” when I finish.
But I hear Daddy at the front door. I emerge from the closet wearing the fox stole and Mom’s favorite high heels and Daddy laughs and says what a clever girl I am, and pulls a five dollar bill from his wallet and hands it to me. I feel exonerated. Someone has noticed. Life is good again.
But Mom still thinks the job isn’t finished. After dinner it’s back to the closet. It’s late, I’m tired and the fun is over. All of my younger sisters are outside, singing, dancing, and buying ice cream from the street vendor, and I’m alone in a stuffy closet with empty hangers.
My sisters return, licking their ice cream cones, asking me to come out and play. But I’m stuck with the job until it’s finished. Mom would say, just fill a few hangers, but I’ve promised myself. I start writing news releases, bios and blogs, and soon the hangars start filling. I pretend I’m having a great time. Maybe if I can produce a Tom Sawyer motivation, I can get someone to help me. This is too much. A terrible waste of time. Painful.
But as I work, I get another bright idea. As soon as I finish, I start writing again. I can’t wait. It seems to me that eight is just the most perfect age in the world. The world is bright. I’m clever and wonderfully talented. But then I pick up the strapless formal and I realize that what I REALLY want are curves like Mom. Then I’ll be happy.
For more information about this versatile author, visit http://www.anneschroederauthor.com