a poorly written essay on operant conditioning

Anne was working for her friend at the Vantage bookstore. Vantage was a cute, eclectic book and novelty store located on a side alley close to downtown. The store was usually empty and extremely boring, but survived because of the rare, high-ticket items it sold. It was going on the third hour of having absolutely no one come in and Anne had been playing Bessie Smith on the phonograph and dancing about the store dusting the tables and shelves with her silk hair scarf. Anne’s long, dark hair was frizzy from being pinned up, but fell down her back beautifully nonetheless. Bessie Smith was turned up loud, Anne and the blues empress were belting something or other about love when the man who had been watching in the doorway began clapping. Anne whipped around, screamed and fell into a table moleskin notebooks and handmade necklaces.

“I’m so sorry, Miss! Here let me help you up.”

“No, I’m fine really. I didn’t know anyone had come in… you weren’t watching for long were you?”

“Ha! Only since you did that twirling number and grabbed the broom to sing into. You could book a number at the Apollo.”

“Oh, I get it. You come in to taunt a poor girl’s singing abilities. Well I think we probably have a book for that, so you’ve come to the right place.”

“You’re adorable. Here, take my hand.”

I’d never let a man help me up, but hell he’s so cute and he did just catch me singing the blues, Anne thought and took the stranger’s hand to stand up. They shared a strange moment looking at each other when Anne realized she was still holding his hand.

“Ah, well.. did you want to take a look at that book or were you really here for the show?”

He chuckled and handed Anne her scarf back that she had thrown at him during the scare. “No, no.. Well maybe here for the show, but I’m in town for a wedding and I left the gift back home. Just looking for a decent gift to give the newlyweds.”

“I see, well we’ve got some real neat records in the back. You know, mood-settin’ kinda music like Ella Fitz. Or if you prefer, there’s a collector’s box of a year’s worth of Ladies’ Home Journal. Men seem to think all proper wives need those. ”

“Hm, well I haven’t got much time. Could you point me in the direction of your poetry collections and ink sets?

“Agh. A much better present, sorry I couldn’t have suggested something logical like that. All the poetry’s on the far wall, let me know if you want any suggestions.

“Would you mind just selecting something for me. I’m a doctor and I don’t tend to understand beauty in words beyond describing the body. You’re music taste was good, I trust you.”

“Ha. Glad you trust me, I’ll see what I can do.”

Anne went over and selected a large hard bound journal of Eastern poetry with a silly haiku on the cover. She also chose three matching red, white and blue covered editions of poetry collected from past presidents. She met the man back at the counter with the heavy books and a beautiful feather and ink set. He laughed and Anne struggled to lift the books onto the high counter and slammed them down due to their weight.

“Did you find the most expensive ones?

“I sure did, and I think they all match nicely.”

“They do. I especially like the combination of this weird patriotic set you got with the Eastern gibberish.

“Hey now! These great American poems are a rare gem! Know one even knows how the secretaries collected them all. And the gibberish is finely translated art. You’ll have the best gift there.”

“No doubt about that. I’m glad I came in.”

Anne smiled at him and brushed her whispy bangs out of her face, “I’m Anne.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Anne. Stephen.”

“Pleasure.”

“This is strange, but would you be interested in being my date to the wedding? It isn’t completely respected to go to a Jewish wedding alone.”

“Not kosher to arrive alone?”

“Funny. The wedding’s at 8pm.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got to stay here until 9pm. But maybe we could get coffee before you leave.”

“I’d love that, can I phone you?”

“Certainly.” At that Anne printed the receipt and wrote her house number at the top. “Here’s my number and your total.”

“Wow! So this is how you dupe men into spending $150 dollars on books, just write your name at the time.”

“You caught me.”

Anne smiled and giggled until her cheeks turned rosie. Stephen smiled back. Then he shook his head softly at her blush and took out his check book. “$200 to pay for the personal shopping and gift wrap.” Anne took the check quickly, “I didn’t say anything about gift wrap!” She handed him a bow from under the counter and smiled a crooked pirate smile at her new suitor. “Dr. Stephen Smitten, that’s a cute name.”

“Hey now, I didn’t choose it. Thanks for the gift wrap, Miss Anne. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I’ve been living in this city for a year. Sure, I’ve worked all these jobs and events and sure I’ve been with a number of men but nothing has filled my soul. I don’t know why I carry on here other than to defend my gender’s strength. To oppose the Uncle just because! In defiance is strength and in pursuance is rest.

Miss Anne was typing away in her study to have an excuse to drink scotch alone when there was a loud knock at the back door. Miss Anne sat upright, alert and stared at the door to her left. She drank a sip of wine and quietly walked away from the door to her bedroom where she stayed until 20 minutes after the knocking ended.

*****

When I write scenes like this I realize I’m obsessed with scene description. I don’t want to tell a story, well I have a story, but it’s all based upon the picture. I want to describe everything, from a toe curling to what’s happening outside. Minor dialogue in between. But it’s so boring, no one wants to read that! They want to read a story and be able to picture it themselves. *sigh* How can I challenge myself to ignore the urge to over-paint in words and simply write a movement. Challenge: Write a scene of Miss Anne going on her first date with Stephen without describing anything about their moods or appearance.

Miss Anne is a character I came up with around last October or November in my decaying studio apartment. I have around 5 female characters that float around, sometimes I try to combine some of their quirks or mingle them in one story. Just trying to bring them fully to life, but they’re all so complicated.  I really like Miss Anne, though. I could never put Miss Anne in a story with the other girls I have, but it’s almost like Miss Anne is either totally in all the people I’ve drawn or entirely absent. I think the main reason is because Miss Anne definitely belongs in an Historic time of progress and turmoil and my other characters are modern, leaning towards fantasy and future.

Right now, Miss Anne lives in 1941 United States. She’s a mid twenties single woman, struggling to define her mind and inevitably her place in existence while battling social anxiety and borderline lethargy. Anne Allen, but always called Miss Anne. Even strangers refer to her as Miss Anne and it can only be contributed to her demeanor. Anne has a college degree in [ ] that she received in her home state of South Carolina. Anne moved to New Orleans just before her senior year at the Women’s College and finished her degree by writing a petition to the president that her education and career would be undeniably better if she was permitted to study under a well-to-do book publisher and travelling lecturer in the arts. Anne was permitted and she finished her last studies by mailing in type-written essays every week for 8 months. Anne continued under the studies of Mr. Michaels for 6 months after, then spent a short time working in a book store and as she explains “taking time to relax and learn herself before she could be capable of affecting others and society.”

Miss Anne is beautiful, witty and can be very warm to be around. In 1941, she’s closer to a cold person to be around. She lives in Chicago and works at a card hall at night. During the day she attempts to keep herself sane and working on her writing as Mr. Michael taught her. At the end of 1941, Miss Anne feels comfortable with herself and goes home to see her family in South Carolina for Christmas. When she returns to Chicago she feels alone and lost until she develops a women’s writing club. In April she meets a kind man named Stephen at her card hall. He’s in town for a [medical] conference but he takes Anne out twice before he leaves town. Anne and Stephen fall in love and continue writing each other when Stephen returns to St. Louis. Stephen leaves for war/African excursion and never sees Anne again, but the triumphs she reeps from the short time he loved her and allowed her to forgive herself lasts in Anne.

I am Anne, in a much less poetic sequence. But in bringing love to Anne’s self I think I may find the keyhole for respecting my operant conditioning.

Next challenge, develop Anne’s family and friends and give Anne one amazing day.

I finally brought myself back to this log today. Let’s see, it’s been exactly 2 weeks. Of course a lot has happened and I feel like a much brighter, fresher person than the state of mind I was in when I wrote to myself that day. I couldn’t even remember the name I’d given this blog. I’ve definitely planned to revisit here, but my writing now is due to talking to an ‘old’ friend about starting an online magazine. I had to sign into my wordpress account so I could tell him the name.

I find it slightly amusing that one of the last things I wrote was that I’d challenge myself to write some more that night when I got off work. And here it’s been 2 weeks.

That day I was moppy and extremely anxious and paranoid. Today I feel calm, stable (if I will), and okay. I think “okay” as a state of being is hard for most to grasp. If someone were to ask “How are you?” and you respond “I’m okay” it would be taken negatively and more than likely followed by “What’s going on?” or “I’m sorry” or any number of half-ass concerned responses depending on their level of caring and time they intend to talk. However, to be ‘okay’ is good. To me, at least, in my connotation of the word. Which also is developed by my own experiences, yada yada. Still, I believe it should be a nice way to be for everyone and regarded in that sense when responding to “How are you?” Today I’m not feeling ill, anxious, afraid to go outside (necessarily, though I don’t want to), or that I’m exactly on the wrong track. I also don’t feel ecstatic or over-joyous, which I’m thankful for because that many times leads me to dysphoria when those emotions pass. It feels good to be okay and it’s perhaps the best state to be in for me to write.

Also, to touch upon the job that I was so anxious about. For back story, I went on a really, really nice date the night before and the next day I woke up early and readied myself for the interview. As I neared Beverly Hills at about 10:30 am- as I was sure the interview time was- I realized I had a text from my friend who set the interview up asking if I was there. This message was sent at a little after 10. The interview was at 10 am. There it was listed in my e-mail clearly, not half hour mark anywhere. I’d even thought to check my e-mail before leaving and (clearly) decided I didn’t need to. I remember feeling a strong need not to. I called 3 times and never got an answer. I felt bad and embarrassed for the friend who had gone out of his way to set it up, but I was enormously relieved. I have been since. Which I suppose is a lesson in itself to get in tune with my emotions and not be afraid to speak up for them, to defend them in their own entities.