Northanger Abbey Rewrite: Chapter 1
The other day it occurred to me that I really lead a rather dull life.
I mean, the heroes and heroines in the fantasy books I love to read are always off on some grand adventure, saving their beloved from death and treachery, never once thinking of their own gain, only what is best for everyone else.
There are villains and monsters, and all sorts of evildoers who put obstacles in their way and mean to do them harm, but at the end of the day, the hero always gets to save the world, destroy evil and ride off into the sunset with his lady love.
Whether it’s some tragic heritage that makes them special (they grew up never knowing their true parents; but in reality they are the long-lost heir to some great kingdom), or it’s his strength and courage that save the day—the heroes in these stories are always willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, and though the obstacles against them seem great, the hero never looses his (or her) faith.
All very romantic, but rather impossible, I know—but a girl can dream, can’t she?
Such tales are wonderfully entertaining and fun to read, taking you to far away lands and places that someone like myself could never possibly dream of visiting in my lifetime, except through the written word.
Oh, how I wish my life were more exciting!
Unfortunately, my life resembles little of anything grandiose like that—I have no tragic past, or royal relations, or even a true love to fight for—all things that seem rather important to the questing hero of old.
I’m not particularly smart, or talented, or even beautiful in order to catch the attention of anyone looking for a heroine, but my dreams are populated with grandiose adventures fighting for my true love and evading terrible monsters.
Of course I know things like that don’t happen in real life, especially not to someone like me—a preacher’s kid with three older brothers and six younger siblings.
Usually, to little girls, their dads are their heroes, but that novelty’s worn off quite some time ago. I love my dad, don’t get me wrong, he’s the sweetest, kindest, most decent guy I know, even though his name is Dick (short for Richard). He’s respected in the community, and his sermons actually don’t suck and aren’t all that boring to listen to on a Sunday morning.
But while I love my dad, and would do anything he asked me to, I really wish I were a little less like him. I wish I hadn’t inherited my bleached skin, straight dark hair and flat-chested stick-frame from him. I know the Good Book says we’re made in God’s image and that we’re precious in His sight, but sometimes I think God was playing a cosmic joke the day I was born.
Even my name, Catherine, is bland and unexciting, and not to mention archaic. Who names their kid Catherine anymore, really? And I don’t even have a cool nickname like Katy or Cat, it’s just plain old Catherine to everyone.
You’d think that with a boring name and my looks against me, I’d have at least deserved some great talent that would make me stand out.
Nope. No such luck.
I suck at everything.
I’ve killed pretty much every plant I’ve ever laid hands on, whether intentionally or otherwise. My memory sucks so bad even my kid sister Sally makes fun of me. I can’t even memorize more than a few verses of scripture correctly.
I seem to be musically-, artistically-, and mathematically-challenged.
I tried piano lessons when I was eight, but gave up after a year of frustratingly little progress—the day the music teacher left for good was one of the happiest of my life.
My drawing skills never progressed past the box-house and stick-figure stage—though not for my lack of trying—and though my dad tried his utmost to teach me creative writing and math (did I mention I was home schooled), I never acquired much of anything that resembled more than a proficiency in either.
Same goes for my mom’s attempt to teach me a second language. The glamour of learning French wore off rather quickly and my mom’s patience was tested to it’s limit when I would come to lessons without having my homework done, constantly giggling at how certain words were supposed to be pronounced. Mercy Buckets.
So, while I may have been healthy and relatively even-tempered, rarely stubborn or quarrelsome, and I love my little siblings and usually let others have their way—my parents thought I was noisy and wild because I hated being confined in one place for too long. I guess you could say I was quite the tomboy growing up.
Tell me, how am I ever supposed to attract anyone’s attention, having all these things going against me?
