juggling different writing projects
In the midst of working on Luna's story, a friend from my book club sent a link about a writing competition with Vocal. Intrigue! The competition involved a small black notebook and a character receiving a $20,000 check. I was hooked.
So, I took a one day break from Luna to give the writing prompt a shot. From this prompt, came Beatrix Bobbit, a seventeen-year-old celebrating her birthday with a witch hat shaped cake. Oh, and she thought she was a witch (is she?! you'll have to read to find out!). It was a lot of fun to write this story (which you can read here or by scrolling to the bottom of this post where I've thoughtfully copied the whole thing, you're welcome!). But, I also felt a little bad about abandoning Luna for Beatrix.
That guilt quickly subsided, and, while I'm sure this is NBD to professional writers, it was a big deal that I could leave Luna's world, and create a new world, with new characters in such a short span of time. All the time I'd invested in Luna and her story had paid off in ways I didn't even know: writing and storytelling was easier because I'd been writing so often.
After I finished Beatrix Bobbit's short story, I basked in the glow of a honeymoon period where I wanted to tell so much more of her story (after all, she hadn't burned me before like Luna had, I mean, we hardly knew each other, of course she seemed great!). I jotted down some ideas and the beginnings of a series to explore later: Beatrix Bobbit goes to Witch Camp, Beatrix Bobbit's month of Halloween.
Then, I returned to Luna, expecting to be welcomed back with a happy hug or high-five. That wasn't quite the case, but we resumed our story together with an added dose of inspiration from an unexpected source. All that to say, if you are working diligently on a particular story or project, taking the time to write something unrelated may give you a new perspective to return to it with. Who knows, it might even be fun.
As promised, meet Beatrix Bobbit below!
Everyone was convinced Beatrix Bobbit would outgrow her belief that she was a witch. Her family indulged her when she was young. They made potions in the backyard, bought her crystals and cloaks and even sent her to Witch Camp when she was twelve years old.
Beatrix’s parents - Judy and Jack Bobbit - not so secretly hoped Witch Camp would be the turning point. Surely, they thought, Beatrix would realize she didn’t want to be one of the weirdos wearing cloaks on humid summer days while pretending to fly broomsticks. The camp seemed to have the opposite effect on young Beatrix who returned home paler than ever but with a fervent belief that she was on the right path. That was five years ago.
Now Beatrix was turning seventeen. While Beatrix’s parents prepared a small celebratory cake in the shape of a witch hat, they whispered about their strange eldest daughter.
“Are you sure this will work, Judy?” Mr. Bobbit’s brow was in a permanent state of furrow. He paced methodically across the kitchen, stepping only on the black tiles, never the white ones.
“Well of course I’m not sure, Jack!” Mrs. Bobbit was extremely agitated that she was still making witch themed cakes for her nearly adult daughter. “But what choice do we have? Dr. Frey thinks this will help.”
Mr. Bobbit nodded his head thrice, and took a seat at the kitchen table which had recently been adorned with painted vines and flowers by their youngest daughter, Sybil. Mrs. Bobbit continued hovering around the cake, trying to place the candles in such a way that the hat didn’t collapse in on itself.
“Harumph,” she groaned.
The melodic sound of laughter blew in from the partially open kitchen window, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing.
“Close your eyes Bea!” Sybil, only two years younger than her sister, shrieked with joy.
“Jack, get up,” Mrs. Bobbit whispered to Mr. Bobbit who had dozed off over the table. Slowly, Mr. Bobbit opened his eyes and removed himself from the table with great care. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and sighed at Mrs. Bobbit.
“Yes, I know,” Mrs. Bobbit replied to the sigh. When two people have endured more than their fair share of witch nonsense over the years, they form their own coping mechanisms. Mr. Bobbit’s involved lots of sighing, while Mrs. Bobbit could never be quiet.
Dutifully, Mr. and Mrs. Bobbit picked up the platter holding the witch cake and made their way to the living room. The sight of Sybil with her blonde hair braided and small hands covering Beatrix’s eyes was almost enough to bring an end to their parents’ woes.
Sybil mouthed at her parents, “One, two three.” The way her buck teeth moved nearly brought Mrs. Bobbit to tears.
Unlike her parents, Sybil was eternally cheerful. She worshipped her big sister, and found none of her proclamations about being a witch to be at all strange. On the contrary, Sybil very much believed that Beatrix was a witch. They spent hours together in the woods behind the house gathering various plants and stones for spells. Even at fifteen, Sybil, much like her sister, had not outgrown these games.
“You know she’s not really a witch, darling, right?” Mrs. Bobbit had asked Sybil just last year on their way back from Sybil’s dance class.
“How do you know she’s not?” Sybil had replied with her giant blue eyes. She looked so innocent, Mrs. Bobbit didn’t force the conversation further.
Mrs. Bobbit shook off the memory, and joined Sybil and Mr. Bobbit in singing Happy Birthday to Beatrix. When they finished, Sybil removed her small hands from Beatrix’s eyes and shouted, “Make a wish, Bea!”
Beatrix closed her eyes once more, her jet black hair fell past her collarbone now. Sybil had inherited Mr. and Mrs. Bobbit’s fair hair and blue eyes. Where Beatrix got her black hair and green eyes from was anyone’s guess. At last, Beatrix blew out the candles and smiled up at them.
Mrs. Bobbit cleared her throat, “Happy Birthday dear, Beatrix. We know you said no presents, but we got you something small.”
Mrs. Bobbit pinched Mr. Bobbit who responded by grunting something that resembled “Acku Urday.”
From inside her floral apron, Mrs. Bobbit produced a small rectangular object wrapped in spare newspaper and tied off with a red ribbon. Beatrix’s eyes went right to the package and widened in excitement.
For years now, Beatrix had been asking for a book of spells for her birthday. So disappointed was she when her only request was ignored that she’d stopped requesting presents all together.
Mrs. Bobbit watched as Beatrix carefully untied the ribbon and peeled open the newspaper in a neat flourish. Inside the paper was a little black notebook, with no adornments or frills. Beatrix held the little black book up in awe, and began thumbing through the blank pages inside.
“For your thoughts,” Mrs. Bobbit explained.
“For my spells,” Beatrix gazed at her sister and giggled conspiratorily. Mrs. Bobbit began perspiring every time the word spell was mentioned.
“The day your spells can help pay for the roof over your head...” Mr. Bobbit grumbled.
“No, no. None of that. Now that you’re almost a grown-up, we thought you might like to document your thoughts. Like a journal or a diary. You’ll be very glad to look back on this when you’re old like me,” Mrs. Bobbit said. What Mrs. Bobbit didn’t say was that this gift had been at the behest of a Psychologist she’d been meeting with in secret.
Dr. Frey had given Mrs. Bobbit the little black notebook at their last visit. He instructed her to present it to Beatrix to use as a journal. Dr. Frey was adamant that Beatrix would be able to get all the witch business out of her system for good by writing it in the notebook. He assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that Beatrix would be so embarrassed seeing her witch inclinations exposed on the page that she would give them up all together.
Mrs. Bobbit thought this idea a bit dubious, but she was out of options. Mr. Bobbit thought Dr. Frey was a moron.
“I love it, thank you,” Beatrix bounced up from the sofa and gave both of her parents a kiss on the cheek. Then, she walked up the stairs with the little black book in hand and purple cloak trailing behind her.
“Let’s eat the cake,” Sybil shrugged her sister’s strangeness off and began cutting delicately into the chocolate witch hat cake.
The next morning, Mr. Bobbit shuffled down the creaking hallway to the front door. He carefully bent over to retrieve the morning’s paper and stood back up with several pops and groans. As he turned to go back inside, his eye caught on something red and shiny. The paper fell from his grasp while he blinked several times to ensure his vision was indeed clear.
“My word,” Mr. Bobbit mumbled. Then, he shouted, “Judy! Judy! Come here, something’s happened.”
Mrs. Bobbit, who was not at all accustomed to Mr. Bobbit exclaiming about anything, sprinted from bed in her purple flannel nightgown.
“Jack,” Mrs. Bobbit huffed out of breath. “What is i--”
Mrs. Bobbit stopped mid sentence. She saw what Mr. Bobbit was exclaiming about. In their gravel driveway, there was a brand new red sports car. The kind of car Mr. Bobbit had always dreamed of owning.
“Where did it come from?” Mrs. Bobbit whispered, placing her hand on Mr. Bobbit’s shoulder.
“How should I know?” Mr. Bobbit scratched his beard.
“Do you like it?” Mrs. Bobbit jumped, startled by Beatrix’s voice. She walked so quietly that she was always sneaking up on Mrs. Bobbit and giving her a fright.
“Did you?” Mr. Bobbit gazed at his daughter to ascertain her involvement in this matter. Beatrix held out the little black book she’d been given last night, open to the first page. There was only one sentence in swirling cursive letters on the page: Help Dad’s dream come true.
Mrs. Bobbit was very nearly stunned into uncharacteristic silence before her senses got a hold of her, “Oh, nonsense. It must be something you won at work, Jack. Congratulations!”
Mrs. Bobbit gave Mr. Bobbit a quick proud peck on the cheek and returned inside to put the sight of the page and car from her mind. Just then, Sybil came bounding down the stairs from her bedroom grinning wildly.
“Sybil, dear, what is it?” Mrs. Bobbit wasn’t sure she could take any more excitement.
“I got the lead!” Sybil leapt and pranced across the living room, holding her phone close to her heart. She thrust it forward for Mrs. Bobbit to read. Despite her blurred vision, Mrs. Bobbit was able to make out her daughter’s name next to “LEAD.” All capitalized and official.
“Why darling that’s wonderful. Congratulations!” Mrs. Bobbit had now said the word congratulations more in one day than she had in all her previous days. Suddenly, an involuntary shiver crept up her spine. Beatrix was right beside her, holding the little black book open to a new page. Mrs. Bobbit didn’t want to read it, but she couldn’t resist: Help Sybil become the star she is.
“That’s very non-specific,” Mrs. Bobbit whispered under her breath. At some point, her hand had gone to her heart. Beatrix shrugged and closed the little black book before Sybil could see.
Vroom. Vroom. Outside, an engine revved while Sybil chattered excitedly to Beatrix about her lead dancing role. Mrs. Bobbit could endure no further excitement without coffee. She tottered to the kitchen, and filled the coffee pot with water while staring at the dreary back garden. The coffee pot clattered to the bottom of the sink, having slipped from Mrs. Bobbit’s tenuous grip when she got another excitement that morning.
Her dreary back garden full of nothing but weeds and dead plants was positively lush and blooming with new flowers, vines and bushes. This time, when Mrs. Bobbit found Beatrix standing at her shoulder, she didn’t jump. Beatrix, for her part, didn’t say a word. She merely pointed to a swirling sentence on yet another page in the little black book: Help mom find joy.
Mrs. Bobbit’s eyes welled with tears, and she followed her eldest daughter out the back door to the garden.
“It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Bobbit dabbed her eyes. For years, she’d been trying to revitalize her garden. She could never get anything to grow.
“Wowwwww,” Sybil had pranced behind them outside.
“What’s this?” Mr. Bobbit appeared, looking several years younger. He regarded Beatrix, “This isn’t proof of any witch nonsense.”
“You want proof, Dad?” Beatrix blinked her long lashes. Mr. Bobbit nodded three times.
Beatrix grinned and turned to a new page in the little black book to write, shielding the sentence as she scribbled. When she finished, she snapped the notebook shut. Not a moment later, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Bobbit - who’d had quite enough excitement - froze, but Mr. Bobbit charged into action. He ran around to meet the doorbell ringer. A few moments later he barrelled back towards the now vibrant garden holding a large yellow envelope aloft.
“Jack, what is it?” Mrs. Bobbit exclaimed with fluttering hands.
Mr. Bobbit glanced once at Beatrix, then tore the envelope open quite savagely.
“My word, my word,” he said holding what appeared to be a white check in his hand.
The sight of the check revitalized Mrs. Bobbit’s nerves. She scurried to Mr. Bobbit’s side and gasped when she saw the blurred writing.
Twenty thousand dollars, made out to Beatrix Bobbit. In the memo section was written: For a new roof. Mrs. Bobbit was starting to see clearly now. When Beatrix held out the newly scribbled page for her to read, she wasn’t at all surprised to see: Help prove I’m a witch with a $20,000 check for the roof over my head.
“Damn, should’ve asked for more,” Mr. Bobbit grunted.
Comments