Pretty

Last night at my writer's group I attempted to write a story. It wasn't a fiction story or anything, just a story of something that happened to me when I was five. I got all good comments on it, but it just didn't feel right to me. I'm not good at writing stories. I'm not good at describing scenes and smells and all that. I don't know how to make things pretty with words like some people do. I guess I got envyous and wanted to try. But my experience reminded of an episode of ,"Two Broke Grils" A waitress made homemade cupcakes and someone told her that they were not pretty enough. So she worked for hours, as I did, trying to make one pretty. She finally did it, but also realized that she doesn't "do" pretty. She likes her cupcakes the way they are. I don't do pretty either. I write poetry and comment on life's messes, which are usually anything but pretty.

I will now share with you the story I wrote, with all the "pretty" parts taken out....

When I was five years old I didn't know how to tie my shoes. My mom had tried teaching me, but we both got impatient with the process. One day, in kindergarten, I was sitting, trying to listent to my teacher tell a story, but I kept getting distracted. It was a boring story. I noticed my shoe was untied.

At home, when I needed my shoe tied I put my shoe on my mom's knee and she tied it. So that's just what I did. I put my dirty tennis shoe on my teacher's clean, white pants knee so she could tie my shoe. She screamed and yelled at me. I got so embarrased from her screaming and everyone laughing that I ran and hid under a table.

That's it. No frill. Just the facts, ma'am.