Writing Exercise 1 - Version 3
(Genre: Modern Day Romance? I dunno...)

Apologies to Dean. I'm engaged in some writing exercises with some of my buddies, and I already submitted this one (a slightly different version) to Dean via e-mail. Then I got the courage to post in on my blog and after reading it I corrected some mistakes (grammar) and adjusted some paragraphs (style). I e-mailed it again, and I saw more things I wanted to change! Ack.

Playing chess frightened her.

Many male “friends” secretly vying for her affections would drop by her loft, trying to catch her winding down at the end of her day, hoping to coax smiles, laughter, and snippets of wisdom from her lips. Some performed songs on a variety of instruments: guitars, flutes, harmonicas, and portable keyboards. Others would read to her from books of poetry or plays or the latest underground novel to garner rave reviews.

A few observant souls tried to entice her with a game of chess, prompted no doubt by the wooden chessboard on her bedside table and the volumes of chess books that dominated the shelves of her mini-library.

She would refuse these requests with feigned fatigue or disinterest, but those closest to her noted the ghost of fear playing about the edges of eyes.

Playing chess frightened her.

Every evening after the last guest left her room, one or more chess tomes would be whisked away from the shelves and stacked beside the frozen game on the chessboard beside her bed. The letters kept in the top drawer of her night table would be carefully taken from their hiding place and laid on her pillow. The chesspieces on the chessboard would be pushed to their starting positions.

She always played black.

She would read the letters then, sometimes lingering on the salutation or smiling at every familiar narrative twist or turn of phrase. At the end of each letter, she would dutifully move the piece to the position he indicated in his letters. And she would reply with a move of her own. This nightly ritual would continue until the last letter was read and the last piece slipped into its well-worn place.

Then she would scour the books for hours, imagining dozens of moves and counters playing themselves out on the chessboard. She would often catch herself wondering what if he practiced chess the way she did – alone and in private. And if he would ever join her in her city. Or if one day, she would join him in his.

Every morning, the books and letters would be carefully slipped back into their proper places.

Playing chess frightened her.

Over the months the letters had gotten shorter, the intervals between them had gotten longer, and the chess moves in them more haphazard and reckless.

One day soon, she knew that a friend would ask her to play a game of chess. And she would hesitate. And she would say yes.