WIP-lashes
Years ago, when I was only thinking about writing, I began to keep a journal. The idea was that I would force myself to fill at least a page every single day—even if it was nothing more than a comment about something I’d been reading. I am, by nature, very lazy and disorganized, but have learned that—if I can establish some sort of routine (no matter how unnatural), I can overcome my naturally sloth-like state.
It worked, and I kept that journal going for several years. Writing became habitual. However, now that I am a writer, I don’t write every day.
When I’m not actively writing, I edit. Or try to figure out how to get out of the textual corners into which I’ve painted myself. Or research some background material for a story. Or go to sleep thinking about writing. Or make some notes to remind me of an idea for a future story (I came up with a couple of them yesterday; writers don’t actually take holidays). Or—while reading someone else’s prose—admire a rhetorical flourish and wonder, “how might I employ something like that?” Or wake up in the morning with a new idea, or a duct-tape-repair strategy to stop some troubling literary leakage. Or just stare into the void.
Or have the void stare into me.
Today, for example, I edited one of the little stories I’ve been compiling as the sequel to Unbelievable: A Modern Novella — the work-in-progress mentioned in my last substack post. It probably won’t follow (immediately, in the book when it’s assembled) the story I shared last time—even though it does follow chronologically.
Natty Vero has a lot of learning to do before he has any hope of getting out of this book.
About Face
Natty reaches into a Victoria’s Secrets shopping bag and pulls out an unsettlingly-large undergarment. He holds it up—an arm’s length away—and shakes his head in disbelief. The item in question is a black lace brassiere, size 38DD.
“This,” he thinks, “is a lot more than I bargained for.” Vero is nowhere heavy enough to have any manboobs, let alone anything remotely massive enough to fill those immense cups. After a minute or so of metaphorical head-scratching—and a little actual head-scratching—he gets up and walks over to his dresser.
He’s not looking for a different bra. He doesn’t own another bra.
He pulls out two pairs of socks, rolls them into balls, and checks them for size. “That’s not going to cut it,” he thinks. He takes out a pair of briefs and wraps it around one of the sock balls. “Close...” he estimates, then adds another pair of briefs. He stuffs the assemblage into one of the cups and exhales a sigh of relief. He prepares the second cup, the same way.
He removes his shirt and swings the stuffed garment around behind his back. He latches the heavy-duty hardware together, slides the unnatural contraption around his torso, hauls the shoulder straps in place, and checks out his profile in his bathroom mirror.
For the first time, what he’s planning to do fully registers in his mind. He laughs so hard that he has to sit down. He starts to say, aloud, “How low I have fallen...” when he realizes how inappropriate that is. “If anything, I am thoroughly uplifted.”
He goes back to his bedroom and takes a shiny bright green dress from a hanger. He pulls off his pants and stands for a moment in his bra, briefs, and socks. He slips into the dress—and his new alter-ego, Natalie Verità. Wiggling his way back to the bathroom, he finds the dress to be significantly more restrictive than expected. He wonders, “How can women put up with such discomfort?” (and this before his first attempt at walking in high heels). He admires himself in the mirror—and grumbles, “If I’m going to continue dressing like this, I’ll have to invest in a full-length mirror.”
He pulls the mirror aside, opening an overloaded medicine cabinet—a cabinet that, formerly, had held little more than toothpaste, a razor, a can of aerosol shaving cream, and a half-empty plastic vial of antacids. It now holds all of the components of the face he plans to wear at Chix with Dix—a face he must try on first.
He strips off the dress and stands—in his augmented underwear—taking inventory of the astounding collection of tools at hand. He mentally checks them off: tweezers, tiny scissors, several brushes in various sizes and shapes, Q-tips, an eyelash curler, beard concealer, mascara, eye shadow (in several unnatural hues), a package of implausibly-long false eyelashes (with their accompanying tube of glue), a package of glitter, and giant jar of cold cream. He congratulates himself for having had the foresight to obtain detailed instructions about the application of this utterly-alien collection of cosmetic accoutrements.
And for having the foresight to remove his dress before his first experiment with make-up. He suspected, quite reasonably, that his first attempt at applying his make-up might be messy. Proud of himself for planning ahead, he thinks,“No need to ruin my costume before I even have a chance to perform in it.”
He unscrews the lid of a jar of Ben Nye Five 'O Sharp concealer—in a dark olive shade—chosen because he thought it would enhance Natalia’s exotic appearance. He dips three fingers into it, closes his eyes, and smears the stuff all over his face. When he opens his eyes, he sees himself, in the mirror, miraculously transformed into a sultry stranger from some unspecified southern clime. He is relieved to see no trace of his normally bluish five-o’clock shadow.
The thought of that shadow sends him back to the medicine cabinet. He spreads a thick smear of electric-blue eye shadow on his eyelids, then feathers it out with a large soft brush. The new look is weighed in the balances and found wanting.
It needs a sprinkling of glitter—because too much is never enough.
Using a tiny brush, he paints a shaky black line just above his eyelashes. He goes a little too far with it and has to add some violet eyeshadow to the edge of the already large patch of color under his eyebrows. He blends it with his soft brush, disturbing the glitter—so he refreshes it.
His real eyebrows, which are buried beneath an opaque layer of dark olive-tone concealer, need to be reapplied—which gives him free rein in his choice of locations and shape. He chooses a look that is vaguely reminiscent of Carmen Miranda playing the role of Chiquita Banana.
He picks up a metal implement—oddly-shaped in the manner of a medieval torture device, but small enough to be used by delicate female fingers—and hesitates before trying it. It looks like a tiny pair of pliers, with curved jaws. He had been told that it was an eyelash curler, but he had his suspicions. He hadn’t known that eyelashes were supposed to be curly, but most of what he was learning about feminine wiles was terra incognita. He gingerly lifts the tool to his eye, trying to avoid stabbing his eyeball or disturbing the layers of still-wet paint on his face. A gentle squeeze of the curved jaws on his eyelashes does not result in pain or disfiguration, so he counts himself lucky.
Since his lashes are now curled—or, at least, more curved than they had been before the procedure—he decides to proceed to another scary part of his unfamiliar toilet. He measures one of his false eyelashes by holding it against his eyelid, then trims it with a tiny pair of scissors. He squeezes a thin line of glue on it then presses the bushy black thing against his eyelid, just below his freshly-curled eyelash. Leaning close to the medicine cabinet mirror, he sees that it’s a little crooked—making him appear intoxicated.
Or merely deranged.
He kind of likes the look.
He applies the other false eyelash then goes back to the closet to fetch his dress and flowing auburn wig. He slips into both, then stands in awe of the “vision of loveliness” his transformation had produced. True, his Natalie is not the femme fatale he had imagined she would be—but her tout ensemble is certainly sufficiently fetching for the crowd at Chix with Dix.
Paid subscribers to these substack pages get access to complete editions of two of my novellas. Noirvella is a modern story of revenge, told in the style of film noir. Unbelievable is a kind of rom-com that forms around a pompous guy who is conceited, misinformed, and undeservedly successful. Both books are sold by Amazon, but paid subscribers get them for free!
Also, substack pages (older than eight months) automatically slip behind a paywall—so only paid subscribers can read them. If you’re interested in reading any of them, you can subscribe, or wait until they are re-released in book form (something I’m in the process of considering).
Meanwhile, it is easy to become a paying subscriber (just like supporting your favorite NPR station). It’s entirely optional, and—even if you choose not to do so—you’ll still get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.