Creative writing story

Blogtember Day 12 - Creative writing day: write a (very short) fictional story that starts with this sentence: "To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century."

I wish you could see the look on my face after I read today's writing prompt. 

It was something like this:

I didn't do yesterday's writing prompt because it asked us to post nothing but photos and you know what? I don't have a fancy camera that will allow me to take dreamy, ethereal photographs of my friends frolicking in golden fields beneath a setting summer sun. You know what I have? A camera phone. And 99.% of the pictures on that phone are of my dog or cakes I've made. So thanks, but no thanks. And thanks for bringing it to my attention that I lack adequate picture-taking equipment that could enhance the overall quality of this blog. Now I've missed a writing prompt AND my self-esteem just took a punch to the crotch.

But I feel like I should be a good sport and participate in today's because I'm in a crap mood and maybe spending some time with creative writing side would be just the thing to turn my frown upside down.

Here goes:

To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century, but I went anyway, got drunk and made an ass of myself.

The end. 

Okay, that didn't work. Think positive thoughts, Courtney. This might actually cheer you up.

Take 2:

To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century, but I had long-since mailed my RSVP and would look like a total bitch if I didn't at least make an appearance. That's the problem with making plans months in advance: It sounds like a good idea at the time, but on the night of the actual event, sitting at home in ratty sweat pants and drinking boxed wine with your cats always sounds much more appealing than socializing with other human beings.

But I know Chelsea put a lot of time and effort into this "shabby chic"-themed shindig (whatever the hell "shabby chic" is) because my goodness, she'd only been blabbering about it for months. Every morning she breezes past my cubicle, pokes her head in and broadcasts the official party countdown, as if I wasn't already receiving (and promptly deleting) her weekly e-reminders. "Only 14 more days until the big fiesta!" she'd exclaim enthusiastically, her corn silk curls bouncing in agreement. Then she would lower her voice conspiratorially, like she was letting me in on some top-secret information: "I'll be serving cocktails in ...  mason jars!"

And I'd respond to this privileged information by slapping a hand over my mouth in exaggerated surprise. "No way!" I'd whisper in mock delight.

After nodding so hard I fear her neck is going to snap, she pantomimes zipping her lips and tosses me the key before scurrying away to undoubtedly share the same exact secret with the rest of her vapid friends.

Like hell I'm going to that party. I'll play along until the big day woefully arrives, and then I'll consult my Rolodex of excuses as to why I can't make it. Hmmm, I don't think I've used dysentery since Gina's Bingo Ball two summers ago ...

Chelsea's high-pitch squeal from a few cubicles away interrupts my thought.

God, I hate her.

But that's what it takes to get ahead in the corporate world. You gotta plaster a big, stupid smile on your face and play along with all the ridiculousness. You gotta drink the company Kool-aid, even if said Kool-aid is diluted with phony ex-sorority girls whose family names make up for the obvious discrepancies in their resumes. I swear, if Chelsea and the rest of the Rockettes would put as much effort into their jobs as they do their lip gloss, our firm's profits probably wouldn't have taken a hit last quarter.

Speaking of resumes (which by the way, mine is glowing. I didn't spend an entire semester interning at a PR firm in Paris for nothing), who's leg do you have to hump to get a promotion around here?

The answer to that question is obvious and he just sauntered into my cubicle looking like a living, breathing J. Crew ad. 

"Hi, Derek," I coo in spite of myself. I absolutely detest how many octaves my voice just climbed. "What can I help you with?"

"I just wanted to check in on the Phillips' account," he answers smoothly, adjusting his aqua silk tie. I love when he wears that tie; it really brings out the blue in his eyes and the firmness of his perfect butt (trust me).

I chew my bottom lip in a way that I hope comes across as sexy, not creepy. "Um," I stall, trying to keep him in my presence for as long as possible. "I'm still waiting for Jonathan in accounting to crunch a few numbers, and then I should have an update for you." I twirl a lock of my brown hair in my fingers because I heard this was sexy.

I just twisted my hair in a knot. Great. 

But Derek doesn't seem to notice because Chelsea is jiggling past my desk again. I can't help but feel a little deflated as I watch Derek's eyes follow her curvy silhouette, but I seize the opportunity to furiously work the knot out of my hair. 

"Great," he replies absentmindedly, still not returning his gaze to me. "Those numbers sound good. Keep up the great work." Ugh, he obviously wasn't listening to a word I said. 

Have I mentioned how much I hate Chelsea? 

Derek turns on an Italian-leather heel and starts heading in the same direction as Party Planner Barbie, and my shoulders sag in disappointment. As I'm about to start hammering out an email to Jonathan about numbers and a bunch of other nonsense that suddenly seems laughably unimportant, I hear Derek's voice behind me once again. 

I swivel around in my desk chair to see him standing at my cubicle wall, staring at me expectantly. "Are you coming to Chelsea's party this weekend? I heard it's going to off the chain." 

His smouldering eyes and chiseled jaw are just enough to make me overlook his odious use of the phrase "off the chain". If I'm being perfectly honest with myself, Derek could ask me if I was going to smuggle a balloon full of drugs up my butt and cross the Mexican border, and I would eagerly exclaim, "YES! SO LONG AS YOU PLEASE KEEP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, YES!"

Smiling my brightest, most toothy smile possible, I reply, "I wouldn't miss it for the world!"


  1. Hahahaha... that was awesome. Gold star for the day.

  2. I love this story! You had me with the cocktails in mason jars.

  3. Hahaha! Love the story! Can't wait to read one of your books one day! ;)

  4. Agreed! Can't wait to read a Notably Neurotic novel one day!

  5. Not only are you hilarious and a wonderful blogger, you are a phenomenal writer. I mean, I should have known you were good, but seriously, when can I buy my advanced copy of your novel?!

  6. Loved this!! (But I also loved the first one where she got drunk and made an ass of herself). :-)


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