New Year, New Goals
It's a brand new year and like many of you I'm setting my New Year's Resolutions. I've got goals for my health, goals for my spirit and goals for my hobbies. This includes several writing goals. I intend to finish "Prince Charming's Search" in the next week if it kills me. I'll also be writing three new books including at least one more of the "Charming" books. But this post is the start of the other goal, the 52 Week Challenge. I'm actually taking these prompts from a photography challenge, so this will test my creativity as I try to figure out how to write a story in Low-Angle. But every Wednesday you can come here to my blog and expect to see a new short story based on these prompts. The remainder of this post is the first short story, a self-portrait. Come by next Wednesday to read a "colorful" short story.
Self-Portrait
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Does that mean that with a thousand words you can paint a picture? Perhaps not, but I’m going to try anyway.
I suppose I’m a rather ordinary person. However, the beauty of words is that something, or someone, ordinary can be turned into something extraordinary. My hair is dark with a suggestion of coppery red tones like mahogany. In the humidity of my native Kansas it becomes an unruly mess of tangled waves. It has the unique quality of being wiry and soft at the same time. At present it plays about my shoulders and at times tickles my chin. Strands of silver are slowly replacing the brighter color of my youth. But I allow it. Youth is not meant to last forever, and most people can’t tell anyway.
My face is cheerful and generally friendly. Large, golden green eyes sparkle with optimism and a zest for life behind impossibly long eyelashes, which caused me no end of trouble with the other girls my age. Often in my early teens I was asked if I wore contacts. No one believed that the bright green flecked with gold and rimmed with a deep blue ring could possibly be natural. I was actually quite excited to start wearing glasses in high school because I was sure the question would stop. It didn’t. Though, to be honest most people hesitated before they asked. Even in college I couldn’t escape it. While working on a self-portrait in an art class, my professor (who had an annoying habit of hovering over my shoulder) interrupted my work to say, “You’re exaggerating your eye color too much.”
This coming from a man who’d told us at the beginning of the project to be sure to use every color we saw in our face, I was understandably incensed. “Actually, that is my natural eye color. If anything I’ve downplayed it.”
“No one has eyes that color,” he scoffed.
“I do.”
He then got mere centimeters from my face and peered into my eyes. “Contacts?”
I rolled my eyes, not even attempting to resist the urge. “I wear glasses.”
He moved on to someone else and I finished my portrait. From my eyes I worked down to my nose, trying to show the gentle upward tip. I added pale freckles across the bridge and onto my cheeks. My freckles aren’t the obvious kind like Pippi Longstocking or the Weasleys. They’re very subtle, often not even visible unless you are very close. During the summer months they tend to darken a bit as I spend more time outside.
My mouth is usually smiling. Often it’s a slightly crooked smile I inherited from my father. The right corner is always the first to twitch when I’m amused or happy. The lips are full and my teeth are slightly crowded, thanks to large Danish teeth and a tiny English jaw. Not the best combination in my genetic make-up. But hey, it could have been much worse.
The rest of me is fairly average. I’m not overly tall, but I’m not short either. I’ve got a very full figure which I tried desperately in my teen years to hide. Baggy shirts and slouched shoulders didn’t help me as much as I had hoped and one day I complained to my dad about it, even going so far as to tell him that I was going to wear cardboard boxes. “Then the stupid boys at school won’t have anything to stare at,” I pouted.
My dad smiled, a twinkle in his blue eyes. He pulled me onto his lap and said, “Jessica, it doesn’t matter what you wear, boys will stare anyway. True beauty cannot be hidden.”
While I felt good that Daddy thought I was beautiful, his comment didn’t exactly help me with my problem. the boys continued to stare and I continued to wear baggy shirts that were much too big for me and slouch my shoulders, causing my doctor no end of lectures at my yearly physicals.
I’m not the strongest person around and I’m certainly no athlete, but a love for nature has kept me active as I’ve gone walking, hiking and exploring. I suppose I’m stocky in a curvy sort of way. (Is that even possible?) I’ve got ridiculously long legs for a person of my height and a high waist, which means that I never tuck in my shirt if I can help it. Doing so tends to add about twenty years to my age, and I’m happy where I’m at right now. My arms are flecked with freckles, earned from years spent climbing trees, hiking in the woods and the mountains (when I could get to them), playing tag and touch football with my siblings and working in my garden. I have large hands which I like to use to create things. My hands are almost always dirty with soil, ink, paint, chalk, or whatever else I’ve been playing with. I’ve got callouses on my fingers from holding pens too long and the side of my right pinky is almost completely smooth from dragging along pages of writing. My fingers are slightly long which comes in handy when I practice my piano. Thinking of which, I need to practice more.
Being a laid-back person, my wardrobe is also relaxed. Jeans and a tee-shirt are my go-to for everyday wear. Skirts and blouses are reserved in my closet for Sundays and date night, if we’re going somewhere nice. I only wear shoes when I have to and often take them off as soon as I can. I’m picky about my accessories, preferring the warmth of gold and rose-gold to the shimmer of silver. I’m not sure what it is about me, but silver always seems to look dull on me. It must just be me because it’s always dazzling on my sister. I love necklaces and enjoy wearing earrings, when there’s not the possibly of my children pulling them out. I always wear my engagement ring and wedding band. the former is gold with tiny diamonds in the front of the band and three small stones with the center being a ruby, my birthstone. The wedding band is a thin filigree band that compliments the other ring beautifully, though they didn’t come as a set. I like jewelry, though my hobbies often prevent me from wearing it often. However, I never wear anything on my wrists. No bracelets, watches, hairbands or anything else. I don’t even like the cuffs of sweatshirts! Having anything around my wrists just drives me bonkers. When I worked at a summer camp that required everyone to wear those popular rubber wristbands for easy identification of staff and scouts, I wore mine around the palm of my hand. Unfortunately, hospitals won’t let me cheat that way like the camp director did. Probably part of why I hate being in them so much.
Anyway, that’s pretty much me in a nutshell. Can you see me? Did I paint a picture with my words? Perhaps a thousand words aren’t quite the same as a picture. But they could be.
Self-Portrait
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Does that mean that with a thousand words you can paint a picture? Perhaps not, but I’m going to try anyway.
I suppose I’m a rather ordinary person. However, the beauty of words is that something, or someone, ordinary can be turned into something extraordinary. My hair is dark with a suggestion of coppery red tones like mahogany. In the humidity of my native Kansas it becomes an unruly mess of tangled waves. It has the unique quality of being wiry and soft at the same time. At present it plays about my shoulders and at times tickles my chin. Strands of silver are slowly replacing the brighter color of my youth. But I allow it. Youth is not meant to last forever, and most people can’t tell anyway.
My face is cheerful and generally friendly. Large, golden green eyes sparkle with optimism and a zest for life behind impossibly long eyelashes, which caused me no end of trouble with the other girls my age. Often in my early teens I was asked if I wore contacts. No one believed that the bright green flecked with gold and rimmed with a deep blue ring could possibly be natural. I was actually quite excited to start wearing glasses in high school because I was sure the question would stop. It didn’t. Though, to be honest most people hesitated before they asked. Even in college I couldn’t escape it. While working on a self-portrait in an art class, my professor (who had an annoying habit of hovering over my shoulder) interrupted my work to say, “You’re exaggerating your eye color too much.”
This coming from a man who’d told us at the beginning of the project to be sure to use every color we saw in our face, I was understandably incensed. “Actually, that is my natural eye color. If anything I’ve downplayed it.”
“No one has eyes that color,” he scoffed.
“I do.”
He then got mere centimeters from my face and peered into my eyes. “Contacts?”
I rolled my eyes, not even attempting to resist the urge. “I wear glasses.”
He moved on to someone else and I finished my portrait. From my eyes I worked down to my nose, trying to show the gentle upward tip. I added pale freckles across the bridge and onto my cheeks. My freckles aren’t the obvious kind like Pippi Longstocking or the Weasleys. They’re very subtle, often not even visible unless you are very close. During the summer months they tend to darken a bit as I spend more time outside.
My mouth is usually smiling. Often it’s a slightly crooked smile I inherited from my father. The right corner is always the first to twitch when I’m amused or happy. The lips are full and my teeth are slightly crowded, thanks to large Danish teeth and a tiny English jaw. Not the best combination in my genetic make-up. But hey, it could have been much worse.
The rest of me is fairly average. I’m not overly tall, but I’m not short either. I’ve got a very full figure which I tried desperately in my teen years to hide. Baggy shirts and slouched shoulders didn’t help me as much as I had hoped and one day I complained to my dad about it, even going so far as to tell him that I was going to wear cardboard boxes. “Then the stupid boys at school won’t have anything to stare at,” I pouted.
My dad smiled, a twinkle in his blue eyes. He pulled me onto his lap and said, “Jessica, it doesn’t matter what you wear, boys will stare anyway. True beauty cannot be hidden.”
While I felt good that Daddy thought I was beautiful, his comment didn’t exactly help me with my problem. the boys continued to stare and I continued to wear baggy shirts that were much too big for me and slouch my shoulders, causing my doctor no end of lectures at my yearly physicals.
I’m not the strongest person around and I’m certainly no athlete, but a love for nature has kept me active as I’ve gone walking, hiking and exploring. I suppose I’m stocky in a curvy sort of way. (Is that even possible?) I’ve got ridiculously long legs for a person of my height and a high waist, which means that I never tuck in my shirt if I can help it. Doing so tends to add about twenty years to my age, and I’m happy where I’m at right now. My arms are flecked with freckles, earned from years spent climbing trees, hiking in the woods and the mountains (when I could get to them), playing tag and touch football with my siblings and working in my garden. I have large hands which I like to use to create things. My hands are almost always dirty with soil, ink, paint, chalk, or whatever else I’ve been playing with. I’ve got callouses on my fingers from holding pens too long and the side of my right pinky is almost completely smooth from dragging along pages of writing. My fingers are slightly long which comes in handy when I practice my piano. Thinking of which, I need to practice more.
Being a laid-back person, my wardrobe is also relaxed. Jeans and a tee-shirt are my go-to for everyday wear. Skirts and blouses are reserved in my closet for Sundays and date night, if we’re going somewhere nice. I only wear shoes when I have to and often take them off as soon as I can. I’m picky about my accessories, preferring the warmth of gold and rose-gold to the shimmer of silver. I’m not sure what it is about me, but silver always seems to look dull on me. It must just be me because it’s always dazzling on my sister. I love necklaces and enjoy wearing earrings, when there’s not the possibly of my children pulling them out. I always wear my engagement ring and wedding band. the former is gold with tiny diamonds in the front of the band and three small stones with the center being a ruby, my birthstone. The wedding band is a thin filigree band that compliments the other ring beautifully, though they didn’t come as a set. I like jewelry, though my hobbies often prevent me from wearing it often. However, I never wear anything on my wrists. No bracelets, watches, hairbands or anything else. I don’t even like the cuffs of sweatshirts! Having anything around my wrists just drives me bonkers. When I worked at a summer camp that required everyone to wear those popular rubber wristbands for easy identification of staff and scouts, I wore mine around the palm of my hand. Unfortunately, hospitals won’t let me cheat that way like the camp director did. Probably part of why I hate being in them so much.
Anyway, that’s pretty much me in a nutshell. Can you see me? Did I paint a picture with my words? Perhaps a thousand words aren’t quite the same as a picture. But they could be.
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