An excerpt from my (in-progress) novel

This summer, I have been working on writing a novel. I've been playing with the story-line of a woman falling in love with a Catholic seminarian for years (though it should be noted- I hated reading The Scarlet Letter), and I feel as though I'm ready to attempt to put it into novel form instead of different short stories.

My loyal companion who sleeps at my feet while I write.

The story encompasses many of my life experiences (I've never had an affair with a priest, but I have had a very painful breakup with a boyfriend who turned out to be gay), and it feels quite therapeutic to get it all in writing.

As I've mentioned before, chick-lit is my favorite genre of writing. Sophie Kinsella, Emily Giffin, and Meg Cabot are my favorite authors. I want to provide women with the reading experience that these women have given to me. I want my writing to be an escape from an often sad and chaotic life and make them laugh. I also want my writing to be about the complexities of love.

Before I get carried away though, the following is an excerpt from chapter one of my novel. I hope you guys enjoy!

-*-

It was September when I first met him. September is a nice month for new beginnings. I’ve always thought so.

I looked over the screen of my iPhone one last time before the start of mass. No early morning messages. No missed calls. There was a small finger smudge on the screen, though. I hate finger smudges. I don’t know why I ever bought a touch screen phone. I pretended to be sending out one last message before tucking my phone back into my handbag. I didn’t want people to think I was that person who checks her phone for activity but ultimately has none. No one needed to know just how unpopular my number was.

            Oh, God. Why was I even here?

            I was twenty-five-years-old and found myself sitting in church every single Sunday morning. I had gone to Catholic school my entire life, and it was almost as if a little GPS had been inserted in me long ago, leading me to the nearest Catholic Church each Sunday for the rest of my life.

            A young couple appeared in the aisle next to me, and I smiled at them as I scooted more towards the middle of the pew.

            The man slid his arm snugly around the woman’s shoulders, and they kept sneaking little glances at one another. The man whispered something in her pearl studded ear. Her eyes widened, and the two of them exchanged a knowing grin. They were probably remembering bits of their wildly romantic, passionate Saturday night complete with champagne and a roaring fireplace. I’ll bet they even had Sinatra playing on the Bose speakers and chocolate covered strawberries to dip into one another’s mouths.

            The opening song began. The congregation all stood up.

            What had I done last night, you may ask?

I had eaten dinner with my best friend, Margot, and her husband, Paul, over at their house. The three of us enjoyed Margot’s famous vegetable lasagna and then watched Tuesday’s “Glee” episode, which Paul had dutifully stored on the DVR. Afterwards, Paul retired to his office where he liked to read the biographies of different United States Presidents while Margot and I drank chardonnay from champagne flutes and pored over the Zara website, putting together our dream wardrobes. Then, Paul came in and looked at Margot in his “I need you now” kind of way, and I left.

            “Is this microphone on?” A young man was messing around behind the pulpit. I hoped he was going to deliver the sermon today. Father Michael has a bad habit of using sports analogies for every religious idea he wants to convey and since I neither enjoy nor understand sports, most of these concepts are lost on me. “There we go. Thank you Father Michael. Hello everyone. My name is John Rodriguez, and as Father explained, I will be studying under him for the next six months as I prepare to be ordained into the priesthood…”

            Wait-what? Who was this guy speaking during the sermon? He was in the monastery?

            I thought priests had to be old and unattractive. Well. Maybe not unattractive. But definitely not hot. Didn’t St. Peter make some sort of rule about that?

            John Rodriguez looked to be in his early thirties. He was tall. My dad is really tall. Like, 6’5” tall. I’ve always heard girls are supposed to marry men that look like their fathers. Except John Rodriguez had big eyes, and they were brown. My dad has small, gray eyes.

Anyway, John Rodriguez was one of those people who talks with his hands. They were literally flying this way and that. I bet he would be so annoying to eat dinner with. He probably knocks over drinks all of the time. Maybe that’s why he is becoming a priest. He must have spilled too many glasses of water on too many women’s laps.

            Annabelle, stop it, I had to reprimand myself. This man is about to selflessly commit his life to the Church. Stop having such awkward thoughts about him.

            This was why I didn’t have a boyfriend. Because I was so clearly demented.

            “My mother and father moved to Boston from Madrid when I was five-years-old. My dad was transferred for work…”

            John Rodriguez could be a Latin lover! I have always wanted to be with a Latin lover. Margot once dated a man from Puerto Rico during college. She says she will never forget the way that man employed his tongue.

            Oh lord. That was an awful thought to have during mass.

“…I worked as a corporate lawyer for Gillette before I realized my true calling in life…”

            This guy had been a lawyer first? He was a lawyer-turned-priest?

            How bizarre.

            John Rodriguez finished his speech without me listening or comprehending a single remaining word. There was one semester in college where I had taken an anthropology course from a gorgeous professor. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I would sit in his class and study his every movement. He liked to suck on his bottom lip while he was thinking over a student’s question. On Monday mornings, he always arrived to class five minutes late with coffee stains on his flannel shirt and severe bed head. Whenever he would click to the next slide on his PowerPoint presentations, he would say, “Aha.”

            I didn’t pay attention to the actual class material at all that term. I preferred daydreaming about marrying my professor and the lovely Lincoln Park apartment we’d occupy with our Saint Bernard. I have no idea why I always imagined owning a Saint Bernard with him. Weird.

I received a B+ in the class, which I’m sure was much attributed to my perfect attendance rather than my exam performance. Margot is convinced it was that very semester when my attraction towards unattainable men began.

            “Excuse me?” The woman of the happy couple tapped my shoulder. “The communion line is moving.”           

            “Oh! Sorry.” I stumbled up from my kneeling position and took my place in the center aisle.

I was embarrassed to feel a little tinge of excitement at the thought of being in John Rodriguez’s communion line. Should I do the old-fashioned method of receiving communion and have him set the host on my tongue?

            Oh my God. I was such a pervert.

            “The body of Christ,” he said to me with a kind smile. I bet he had his teeth professional whitened. I’m generally very good at detecting those kinds of things.

            Looking at that professionally whitened smile and those deep brown eyes…I suddenly went blank. What was I supposed to say again?

            He grinned even wider and raised his eyebrows at me.

            Oh my God. I had been receiving communion since I was eight-years-old. That was seventeen years!

            John Rodriguez mouthed, Amen.

            “Amen,” I said hurriedly, taking the host from the palm of my hand and instead of heading back to my seat, frantically made my way to the back door and quietly slipped out of the church.

            Once I was outside I breathed in the brisk, autumn air and put my hands over my face. My cheeks were burning hot. I could only imagine how red my face had to be.

            “Miss? Are you alright?”

            I quickly turned around, but I already knew who was behind me.

            “Oh, y-yes. I’m fine,” I stumbled over my words, hoping a car would jump the curb and run me over, saving me from my misery.

            John Rodriguez smiled, “I was concerned you were ill. Believe it or not, you are the first person I’ve come across to forget what to say at communion. And then when I saw you run outside…”

            “Oh gosh, no! I’m okay. Totally okay. I’m sorry to have worried you like that. It’s just, um, I was up late last night, and I suppose my mind isn’t all there this morning,” I lied to a future priest.

            “Oh, of course. I understand…”

            Did he think I was inferring a wild night of drunkenness?

            “Nothing like that!” I said quickly.

            John Rodriguez looked at me curiously, “Nothing like what?”

            Feeling my face grow redder I stammered, “I-I didn’t want you assuming by staying up late I was out binge drinking or something. I mean, I did have some chardonnay last night but only a few glasses. I was actually up late…working.”

            Great. I had now lied twice to a man who was planning on devoting his entire life to God.

            “Working on a Saturday night? Sounds like you’re very dedicated to your job. What is it that you do?”

            Thankful I didn’t have to fib again, I pushed my blonde hair away from my face, “I own the bookstore two blocks down.”

            John Rodriguez’s eyes brightened, “Is that so? I very much enjoy reading. I will have to stop by sometime.”

            “That would be great.”

            Just then, the church doors opened and the congregation began spilling out, everyone eager to meet John Rodriguez and obnoxiously calling out to him.

            “I’ll let you go,” I said hurriedly, shifting my weight and starting to walk away.

            “Wait,” John Rodriguez reached out and gently took my hand in his.

            My stomach did a little flip.

            I looked at him expectantly.

            He awkwardly dropped my hand and looked at me a moment longer before finally saying, “Your name. I don’t know your name.”

            “Annabelle. I’m Annabelle James.”

 -*-