Nano Fail and a Little Chick Lit

I'm not sure if y'all remember (most of you are - thankfully - too new to my blog), but I attempted the NanoWriMo competition in November last year.

And by attempted, I mean I set up a profile and wrote a brief prologue-type introduction to my story. That is as far as I got.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the competition, you can read my blog post here.

I am not proud of this most recent writing fail, in fact I am downright ashamed that I let, yet another, writing opportunity slip through my fingers.

But, never one to wallow in my own ineptitude and complete lack of discipline, I thought I would post what I wrote here. I feel this is a safe space (please no tomato throwing).

So, without further ado - here is my first (pitiful) attempt at Chick Lit. I have fondly titled it Nano Fail.

Happy reading:

*Weheartit

It was at my sister's wedding that I first realised I was alone.

I was sitting at one of the seventeen immaculately decorated tables in the reception hall, watching my younger sister and her new husband, a banker named Daniel who played golf and drove a convertible, slow dance to Endless Love by Lionel Ritchie.

I knew I looked good. Beautfiul even. My frizzy hair had been ironed to within an inch of its life, and my make-up was immaculate. My eyes 'totally popped' according to the 17-year-old beauty school student who had caked my face with layers of foundation and powder from her faux Louis Vuitton vanity case earlier that day.

My bridesmaid's dress was beautiful. I had to thank Lucy for that. Comfortable enough in her own beauty, my sister didn't feel the need to dress her bridesmaids in potato sacks adorned with cheap lace and itchy chiffon. My dress was navy blue, satin and draped smoothly and elegantly over my newly slender hips.

This was it, I remember thinking, crossing my legs underneath the table. This was the most desirable I was ever going to look. The best version of myself I could ever hope to be.

And nothing.

Not so much as a hint of interest from one of the single male wedding guests sauntering around the room in their black and white suits. I watched them skilfully balance champagne flutes between their fingers, while flirting with the pretty young women in their pretty little cocktail dresses.

I would never be one of these women.

I would never be good enough.

The weight of this revelation fell on me like an anvil, and a familiar hollow emptiness spread through my body until I ached to my very core.

And I had to fight back the urge to cry.