ROCHELLE #11

Rochelle----- Rochelle--What a name! Rochelle-it rolls richly off one's tongue. Rochelle-- a lover's word .” Rochelle, I love you"  ".Rochelle you are my world." " Rochelle, my beloved Rochelle". Rochelle repeated her name over and over—“What were her parents thinking of when they named her? The name belonged to a beautiful voluptuous woman ,fragrant. vibrantly young, confident, sexy, all the lovely adjectives dedicated to  romance novels. She, on the other hand did not belong to any novel she could imagine. She was the kind of woman never to be featured anywhere neither in fiction nor in real life. No, she  was the kind of nondescript woman that was always passed over, not noticed ,with plain ordinary features, mousy brownish hair and no elegance. Rochelle knew where she belonged in life and if she became unsure, she had her faithful mirror to remind her,” Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?” and the mirror would always answer “not you my dear”.  Across the city another woman was looking into her mirror –a very different mirror-this mirror is beautifully beveled with an ornate gilded frame. This woman was also examining her reflected image and was thinking on the same lines, but with a difference. “Why was I given this name by my parents? What were they thinking of? “who names their child -their beautiful only child -Jane? “Jane, where are my shoes?” “Jane ,my shirt needs ironing.” “ Answer the phone Jane”. This is the life expected by a woman named Jane. This is the sum total of  her. Jane looked at herself in the mirror examining in detail her exquisite features, her blue azure eyes, her rosebud mouth, the tilted nose and the high cheek bones to” die for.” Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?”---  You have read, dear reader, the first paragraph of my novel that I WILL NEVER WRITE !  As I am developing my typing skills I am also curiously examining all aspects of this tantalizing machine [though I still haven’t learned how to paragraph-my elusive cursor mysteriously won’t let me –any suggestions my silent readers!] and it is inevitable that I examine the role of the novelist. There are many questions that come up and I am enjoying dealing with them; what, for example, does it feel like staring at a blank wall waiting for inspiration? Do I throw myself back in my chair, gaze distractedly at the ceiling, calling on my muses?” Where are you Paul Newman, Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt?” “Why have you deserted me?” Do I tear at my hair or throw my trusty typewriter out the window? All very deep questions but that is not all! “What do I wear?” And most important “what do I drink?” Do I wear an old beige cashmere sweater with holes in the sleeves, faded jeans, desert boots and artistic cravat tied carelessly round my neck? Do I drink scotch? Or shall I wear a loose tropical afghan with a turban on my head and drink absinthe? That solved, what theme should I chose? Shall it be a crime thriller complete with monocled aristocrat, or a romance with a tall dark brooding character with a throb in his throat? What format shall I use? Shall I use”Hemmingwayesque” short curt sentences-every tiny word heavily weighted, or should I use a”Robertson Davies” florid,flambouyant style? These are problems that are keeping me awake at nights. But however tempting it is to continue in this enticing way I am sorry to say I will never write this novel! So what will happen to plain Rochelle and Lovely Jane ? I am afraid I will never know and eat your hearts out dear readers for you will never know also –though I think there will be a prince in it--- or a frog!  And so, on this note, this “almost budding” novelist bows out for tonight