Cloudy with a Chance of Cupid

Over the past couple of years, I've entered (or at the very least, registered for) the NYC Midnight Short Story and 500-Word Fiction Challenges, which are online challenges for writers across the world hosted by NYC Midnight.

I don't remember how I came across the challenges, but I remember thinking that I needed something to spark my motivation, something to challenge my imagination, something to prove that I could still write decent words with a deadline even when I felt creatively stagnant.

In my first Short Story Challenge, I made it to the second round! I had pretty low expectations considering it was my first challenge, so I was excited that I made it past the first round. I wasn't so lucky with my first 500-Word Fiction Challenge, but I still considered it a win since I challenged myself to write a piece of fiction in such a small number of words.

Last year, I hoped to keep the momentum going and registered for the Short Story Challenge again.

Then, came the prompt:

Genre: Romantic Comedy

Subject: Monday morning(s)

Character: A fan favorite

Romantic comedy? I don't do romantic comedy.

I don't watch romantic comedy. I don't read romantic comedy. And I sure as hell don't write romantic comedy.

But the challenge had been presented.

And I accepted.

The title came to me pretty easily, along with an initial plot.

The rest was a different story.

This is how far I got:

The gentle thrumming of the rain against the window coupled with the soft drumbeat laced in Ben Gibbard’s lyrics eased me awake. It was too early. I groaned, rolling away from the gray light diffusing through the cheap curtains and turned off the alarm on my phone. My eyelids fluttered closed before I realized what Ben Gibbard’s voice meant.

It was Monday morning.

I threw the comforter off, pulled on my discarded socks from last night, and padded down the hallway to the living room without even giving a thought to my appearance. Chloe would be emerging from her bedroom any minute, fully clothed and looking like Lucy Liu in a pantsuit, while I embodied my inner teenager too lazy to be bothered to change out of my ratty Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt and gym shorts. But I didn’t care.

Grabbing the remote, I switched on the TV and propped myself on the edge of the wooden coffee table. My heart flipped along with the channels and nearly stopped when I reached the Channel 4 news.

There he was, the reason I woke up early on Monday mornings, the motivation I needed to get out of bed. Chase Dougherty, the most attractive weatherman I had ever seen on television. Every Monday morning, for the past six weeks, I watched Chase give the weather forecast. He was new to Channel 4, but his handsome charm made him an instant celebrity. It wasn’t long before every single woman in the city was using #MondayHeatWave to refer to Chase on social media.

“Good morning, Chicago! I’m Chase Dougherty and here’s your weather at seven.”

His words were like velvet pillows for my ears, so soft and comforting. A warmth spread over me as I watched him move gracefully in front of the map, pointing and gesturing at weather patterns moving across the screen. Meteorology has never been so enthralling.

With my elbows on my knees, I leaned forward. Even the poor resolution of our TV couldn’t conceal Chase’s perfectly chiseled cheekbones. I stared into his slate-blue eyes until the pixels became distorted and the clicking of Chloe’s heels against the hardwood drew me away.

Chloe stopped at the threshold of the living room, and I turned to meet the bemused expression on her artistically curated face.

“Oh, Laurel,” she sighed, shaking her head with a smirk. “You know what I told you about trying to make out with the TV.”

“Very funny.”

Chase’s segment was already over, and the two unappealing news anchors rambled on about the upcoming Super Bowl. I shut off the TV as Chloe poured coffee into her University of Chicago Law travel mug in the adjoining kitchen. I walked over to the island separating the kitchen from the living room and plopped myself on a stool.

“That obsession of yours is a little concerning,” she said without looking at me.

I waved my hand.

“Give me a break. I need something to get excited about, don’t you think?”

Chloe shrugged. “It might just be a tad unhealthy, that’s all.”

The foil of the Wild Berry Pop-Tart Chloe grabbed from the cabinet crinkled in her hand as she tore it open and extracted a single tart.

“Probably just as unhealthy as your breakfast habits,” I countered.

She took a bite into the purple and blue frosting and lifted the pastry towards me, tiny crumbs falling onto the marble countertop. “Touché.”

Chloe was my antithesis in every way, but we somehow stuck to each other like Velcro ever since we became roommates in college. Five years after graduating, we were still roommates. I was still the awkward one with unruly blonde hair who couldn’t get my bearings no matter how hard I tried. Chloe was still the composed one with pin-straight raven hair who moved through life with ease. I often watched her in awe wondering what it would feel like to have my shit together.

Scarfing down the rest of her Pop-Tart, Chloe quickly wiped her hands and headed for the door. Her sleek ponytail swished behind her as she gathered her gray peacoat and leather briefcase.

“I gotta run,” she said. “I’m working on a big case which is turning into one giant cluster. Don’t wait up if I’m late.”

“Got it, big shot.”

With the grace of a professional woman, Chloe opened the door. “Hey, make sure you get dressed today. Maybe go into the office?”

“No promises, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” she said, smiling.

I locked the door behind her and pressed my forehead against the cool metal, letting out a heavy sigh.

-

To my credit, I made Chloe proud and ventured out of our apartment and into the real world most days that week. I tamed my curly hair the best I could by forcing it into a presentable top knot. I lightly layered on the blush and the mascara, chose outfits in neutral colors with my best-looking shoes. I put the effort in without going over the top.

I had to save my real effort for my job, which involved gritting my teeth and throwing elbows, fighting with other writers for the best stories in Chicago. Who knew the Chicago Flyer would be so cut-throat? And yes, the magazine was named the “flyer” with the hope it would “fly” off the shelves. The only copies I’d seen flying were the abandoned ones migrating down the alleys towards the dumpsters.

Regardless of the magazine’s flight plan, it was still my job to write. Which was what I was trying to do when Isabella, the new intern, popped around the corner of my non-descript cubicle all wide-eyed and bubbly. Her red wavy hair painfully bright and her cheeks artificially matching, she looked like an anime character.

“So, any exciting plans for Valentine’s Day?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes and instead gave Isabella a tight smile. “No, not this year. Just staying in.”

I didn’t need to be reminded that I would be spending Valentine’s Day alone after fantasizing about something much different just a few months ago. A large bouquet of roses, a red velvet cake, a sparkling ring. My naiveté got the better of me, thinking that Jared was “the one” right up until I caught him groping his ex at his brother’s New Year’s Eve party. That was a great way to ring in the New Year.

Isabella’s smile faded slightly but she recovered by spouting off her own “amazing” plans to go ice skating with her boyfriend and have a prix fixe dinner at Alinea. She squealed, unable to contain her excitement. I winced, unable to contain my indifference. Unfazed, Isabella ran off to tell the next unsuspecting victim.

Then, I fell victim to my own doubts.

Sure, I had an idea of where I wanted to go, but I struggled to see the steppingstones to the finish. Plus, I was outside of my comfort zone writing in a genre I had never touched before.

What if the story was too cheesy?

What if it wasn't funny enough?

All these questions and more.

Hence, why this story has sat abandoned in my writing folder since February of last year. I was disappointed in missing the challenge deadline, frustrated that I couldn't manage to write just 700 more words.

I had snippets waiting to be attached like forgotten limbs.

Like, when Laurel unexpectedly bumps into Chase on the street in the middle of a downpour and he offers her his umbrella and a drink at the pub across the street.

He could forecast the weather, but he couldn’t have warned me of the bolt of lightning striking my chest, the thundering in my ears, or the heat of his presence.

Wait, what was I doing?

I was following some stranger to an unknown location.

But was he really a stranger?

He was Chase Dougherty. Everyone knew him. He was on the news.

Would he really risk his reputation by kidnapping and murdering me?

Probably not.

But what about those serial killers who pretended to be totally normal and got away with murder for decades without anyone suspecting them?

Was that Chase?

I needed to stop watching true crime shows at midnight.

I even had a whole backstory explaining the ridiculous origin of Laurel's name (Laurel's father's obsession with Laurel and Hardy), which would come up in a conversation between Laurel and Chase.

“So, is Laurel a family name?”

“Nope.”

“Laurel, like the tree?”

“No, not like the tree.”

“Huh.” He shrugged. “I’m stumped. Pun intended.”

I laughed, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. It’s some obscure reference that only my dad finds hysterical.”

“Well, what is it?”

I sighed. Was I really going to tell Chase the origin of my name? I looked down at my glass, took a swig, and decided to divulge my embarrassing childhood.

So, why couldn't I connect the pieces?

This is a question I continue to grapple with, and not only for this particular story.

Scenes come to me in random snapshots, not in a linear roll of film.

I've realized that I have trouble writing scenes I cannot see. I'm aware that scenes need to be knitted together, but I lack the right yarn. I sit with my knitting needles at the ready and yet, I can't get them to move or generate something that my brain cannot visualize itself.

The boring and mundane scenes are where I struggle the most. I can't seem to force my brain into creating something that it does not find exciting. The normal, day-to-day routine scenes do not spark a ton of interest. As a thriller/suspense writer, most of the scenes that come to me first are the high-octane, high-anxiety ones with palpable tension.

Romantic comedy doesn't involve a lot of those scenes.

But that is just an excuse I give myself.

For me, I've learned that this issue isn't specific to romantic comedy writing. It rears its ugly head no matter what genre I'm writing.

It pops up in my current novel-in-progress, it pops up in short stories, it pops up everywhere.

Awareness is just the first step towards addressing the problem.

I don't have an easy answer to the problem, but hopefully the steppingstones will begin to appear through the fog as I move forward. And maybe, this story, along with the dozens of others that have stalled for the same reasons, will finally come together.