I sat at my computer and edited and edited and cleaned things up, and soon all my thoughts and words looked and sounded very nice. And then I began writing fresh stuff.
Good grief, sometimes I'm one heckuva lousy writer! I thought I'd die when I read what I'd written...
So, I have this chair. Let me share it's story:
I rolled my big van up to a yard sale a million years ago. I jumped out of my over-sized kid-mover and sauntered over to a chair that stood out like a sore thumb--the kind that looks like a hammer just hit it and it's going to hurt for a very long time. It was sitting on a driveway in direct sunshine, unfiltered by anything like tree shade or a house roof surrounded by walls and such--where most chairs should be sitting. It was just sitting out there under full strength UV decay. I had worked for an upholstery shop, so that kind of exposure was half a step away from blaspheme for an antique chair, in my rule book.
I examined the poor creature. That's what furniture people like me sometimes do. My mind is silently thinking at this moment, "Hey, we just finished off our basement and something like this would be nice to sit on. It's a hot little (sun-heated) candidate."
Masking tape held the asking price of something like $50.00 or so on the back. I looked it over well. You see, it was in pretty good condition, clothed in fairly good quality fabric showing little wear, but it had a major flaw. A huge, ugly, glaring, can't overlook it, kind of flaw.
Over strolls the weekend store clerk. "You like the chair? It can be yours for $50.00."
My mouth was still hanging open as I stared at the flaw. Gasping, I said something like, "$50.00?"
Ah, the bargaining began without me even knowing I'd entered into it.
"Okay, $25,00. It's yours and I'll throw in the footstool."
I noticed the footstool--a very sad looking lump of wood and fabric.
"I don't want the footstool. And the chair... It's ugly!"
"It's been recently reupholstered. Nice new foam in the cushion. Grandma used it for only about a year before we moved her into a care facility. It's been sitting unused for 2 - 3 years now. She's gone, so we're selling everything none of us wanted."
Me, clearing throat, "no one wanted it?" I could see why.
"It really is a nice chair... blah, blah, blah... what will you give me for it?"
"I wouldn't even pay you $5.00 for it. It's so ugly!"
"Well, it's sturdy."
"Do you know how much it would cost me to recover it? I'd never dream of taking it into my house looking like that!"
"I can't let it go for $5.00, but if you'll take the footstool, I'll give them both to you for $10.00."
"I don't want the footstool. It doesn't match and it would need a lot of work and upholstery too."
"Okay, $9.00. You get them both." Suddenly I'm holding a huge scrap of leftover fabric from when the chair was upholstered. "Sold! Let me help you get them into your van."
"I don't want the footstool, and I especially don't want this fabric remnant."
"They're a set. You have to take them both or you don't get the chair."
My teenage son runs to the van and opens up the back door because the man asks him to. He's hauling the chair and calling for someone to bring twine to tie it in and hold the back doors closed because they won't completely shut. In the meantime, he's calling over his shoulder for me to grab the footstool.
I protest. "I don't want the footstool!"
"Get the footstool for your mom," the man orders my son. Off he trots.
I pull out my wallet and pay $9.00 for the antiques--a footstool that I don't want and a chair that is badly flawed--that according to my close inspection--I did the sewing on at least five years earlier, but that's not the problem with it. As we pull away I hear the man calling to his wife in celebration, "I sold Grandma's chair!"
I drive home, slunk way down in the driver's seat, hoping no one I know sees me bringing home this atrocity. No such luck. My next door neighbor sees me pull up and start unloading. She ran, yes, RAN down her driveway and up mine before I could get that chair into the garage and safely close the door to hide it. She's screaming, squealing, hollering at the top of her lungs to halt me from shutting the garage door. Please, can't it suddenly be night and this chair disappear in the dark? But no, it isn't, and it doesn't disappear.
My neighbor arrives out of breath. "I want that chair! I want that chair! Will you sell me the chair?" I move between her and my chair. This could end badly if she grabs an arm and leg because I WILL grab the opposite arm and leg and I'm sure horse-hair filling will fly as it's pulled apart--along with our friendship.
I crouch, ready to spring into action to defend my ugly chair. "No," I say, "but you can have the footstool."
She peers at the footstool, down her nose (imitating how I looked at it, too). "No. I just want the chair. Where did you get it? How much did you pay for it? Do they have another one? I'll give you $500.00 for it" She really didn't offer me that much, but it sounds good here. I think her offer climbed up to about $250.00. At that point I told her to go get a custom chair made just like mine.
My son finishes unloading the van and whips out the fabric piece. My neighbor nearly fainted. At first I thought it might have been to throw me off balance so she could steal my chair. But no, she lunged for the fabric, snatching it from my son's grasp. (Slight hyperbole there, sorry, I couldn't refuse.) And there it was. That's what the fuss was really about--the fabric, and not the chair. She loved what I hated. I snatched the fabric out of my son's hand (no hyperbole there) and begged her to take it. I shoved it into her eagerly waiting arms. I promised I'd turn it into throw pillows for her sofa if she'd take it away and promise I never had to see it again. She shoved the fabric back at me and told me to bring the pillows over when I finished them.
My neighbor danced off delighted with my promise that I'd transform her 48-inches of hot pink crushed velvet fabric. I closed the garage on my sadly abused baby. And then I stripped. The chair, not me. But not until I'd gone inside and made throw pillows and delivered them next door, along with every disgusting extra inch of that ugly fabric!
Moral of story: Do not ever upholster your antique chair in hot pink crushed velvet, and if you do, refrain from showing me.
2nd Moral: If you're selling and someone squeaks, "$50.00" over your price, don't jump to the assumption that they think you're asking way too much and reduce it. Especially to $9.00. When I spotted the treasure at a distance I expected to pay more, a lot more, and I gladly would have.
3rd Moral: If someone gives you a footstool, deal with it. If they give you ugly fabric, get rid of it as fast as you can!
Smoky blue was in style in the '80's, so my chair soon turned smoky. In the '90's it got the look it's still wearing. Until now it has always sat in my bedroom and been a piece of furniture NO ONE sat in unless I said, "take a seat" and waved toward the chair. Remember, I have 5 kid, and they all went through teenage years, and anytime they heard that invitation they knew they'd just been ordered into the electric chair and they were not escaping until they'd taken care of EVERYTHING. It served at my witness chair. My polygraph chair. My plead your case chair. My listen up until I'm done talking to you chair. It was the confession spot. Thankfully, I rarely made that invitation.
Back to my writing. I'm hereby putting myself in that chair. Grounded! I'm giving myself a lecture and making promises to myself. The conversation is going something like this:
"Don't just assume that after such a long hiatus that you can waltz in here and assume you can write like an expert. If I ever see you producing something so sloppy again I'm going to make you reread the dictionary. Got that?"
"Yes, ma'am! I'll think more and deeper and more critically and plot better." Then quietly, "can I now be excused to go do something a million times easier, like upholster a chair?"
"No, but you can go warm up your computer chair. Like for six hours. And while you're there, write something besides your novel. Give your poor brain a break from it. Your last 2 chapters stink. Badly. Stop tormenting your poor 'project' for a while. Then clean them up. Like next month."
I squeak, " Okay."
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