The Fire-Juggler’s Fiancee
I am the woman on the cover of "women’s fiction.”
I think I'm a woman. Maybe I'm a girl? You can usually just see my feet. If you can see my hands, they’re clutching an umbrella, or a watering can (so much cuter than a hose!), or a single on-trend flower (a gerbera daisy, maybe? nothing tawdry like a rose). But everything you really need to know about me, you can tell by my shoes. I’m standing a bit pigeon-toed, which makes me look bashful in an endearing sort of way, I think. My shins are bare, because I’m not a pants kind of girl, and also because it’s always summer in my world. If you can see a bit of my dress, it’s yellow, or blue, and likely of the gingham persuasion. Hey, I don't need to wear pink to prove that I’m feminine. If you could see my head, which you can’t, there is probably a daisy chain in my hair, which is definitely long.
I am the Auctioneer's Niece. I am the Oenologist's Orphan.
I wear a variety of quirky shoes, but never heels. Gosh, no. Heels are for the--dare I say?--“downmarket” girls. The popular girls. You know the type. Whereas I appear mistily real (if sans head), those ladies are animated, bebaubled, and bold. How they smirk in their pink skirt-suits, one slender manicured hand on one slender jutting hip. Their careers are glamorous: Fashion editor. Wedding planner. Bespoke cupcake designer. If they have a dog, it is also glamorous (a Brazilian-blownout Afghan hound...or a teacup Yorkie enpursed in Hermès). Sometimes they carry shopping bags, those women. Enormous bags! Dangling from such dainty fingertips! I never have a shopping bag, though I might have a picnic basket. It depends on whether my story takes place in Nantucket, or a charming little midwest town where everyone knows everyone.
I am the Wigmaker’s Wife. I am the Ditch-Digger’s Daughter.
But back to my shoes. They are quirky, not edgy. Maybe a pair of cute green galoshes, so you know I’m an individual. If I'm at the beach, I might be barefoot. Or in espadrilles--if they aren't too ethnic. Are they? Not that there's anything wrong with that. Gosh, no, I have a friend who's ethnic! She's funny, and supportive, and gives such folksy advice.
I am the Accordianist’s Muse. I am the Sponge-Diver’s Sister.
So many of us women’s fiction girls, we’re summed up by the shorthand of our shoes. Metonymy, I think they call it, that shorthand. Or maybe it's synecdoche? Ask the ladies at the book club. They all majored in English and meant to be novelists; their days would be spent conjuring Serious Fiction from Underwoods, or in scandalous dissipation, or both. Now they go to book clubs to discuss my life--me!--and wine away the suburbanalities of children and husbands. Suburbanality--is that a word? Ask the book club ladies. They'll know.
I am the Theme Park Mascot's Mistress. I am the Alchemist’s Concubine.
And while we’re at it, a few more questions? Ones you won't find in the good old "Reader's Guide." (Because what says "fun" like a pop quiz, am I right?). The thing is...I can't help wondering--during all those wistful moments of misty-horizon-pondering and umbrella-handle-holding--well, why must I always be somebody's something? Is that all I am to you, the object of some possessor? I mean, how come someone else--some guy, let’s face it--gets to have the compelling vocation, and all I get is…the relationship? (And some whimsical shoes.) Just once, just once, can't I have a face?
Can't I be in focus?
Can't I be the somebody?













