That's write (little pun there)...I'm writing a novel(la). Still not sure which length I'm going to end up choosing. I'm only up to about 900 words so far and I'm attempting somwhere between 20- and 50-thousand...so, as you can see, I have a ways to go. Below is my story so far. Tell me what you think of it...thanks!

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The Cobbler's Daughter
By: Christina M. Sirignano

I was the youngest of three daughters. Our mother, being as literal-minded as any person could be, named us Grace, Hope, and Melody. Well, as you might have guessed, Grace, my eldest sister, was quite graceful; Hope, the middle child, was rather hopeful; and I, Melody, well…let’s just say that my mother was 2-0. It was for this reason that my name was formally shortened from “Melody” to “Mel.”

It’s not that I didn’t appreciate my name, it’s just that, try as I may, I soon discovered at the ripe age of ten that I did not possess a single melodic bone in my tiny body. My first attempt involved a wooden spoon and a tin pan. What resulted was pure and unadulterated noise. When I turned seven and three quarters, I tried again. This time, my family’s ancient Grand Piano was my weapon of choice. Eek! My third and final try was not so much a disaster, but rather the cause of my mother’s swift and seemingly unannounced departure.

All three of us were pretty children, with curly blond hair and blue-green eyes; and if Grace’s hair was brightest and Hope’s eyes biggest, it wasn’t so noticeable for the first seven years. After some time had passed, though, our outward differences became relatively conspicuous. Grace’s hair, for instance, began to take on such a fair hue that it nearly resembled the down of a grown swan. Curling slightly at the ends, her fine tresses framed a delicate, heart-shaped face, complemented by a rosy complexion and a pair of strikingly azure long-lashed eyes. Her nose was short and elegantly structured (said doting friends of the family), and set below it was a pair of lush lips, red as a poppy after a warm spring rain (said her doting admirers). Hope’s hair darkened to a rich chestnut-brown, and her big eyes turned a misty green within an oval-shaped face. Grace was an inch or two taller and her skin was ivory pale; but except for their dramatic coloring, my sisters looked very much alike. Both were tall and slim, with tiny waists, dimples when they smiled, and small delicate hands and feet.

I was five years younger than Hope, and I don’t know what happened to me. As I grew older, my hair turned mousy, neither blond nor brown, and the baby curl fell out until all that was left was a stubborn refusal to cooperate with the curling iron; my eyes turned a muddy hazel. Worse, I didn’t grow; I was thin, awkward, and undersized, with big long-fingered hands and huge feet. Worst of all, when I turned thirteen, my skin broke out in spots. There hadn’t been a single spot in our mother’s family for centuries, I was quite sure of that. And Grace and Hope went on being innocently and ravishingly lovely, with every eligible young man in the area – and many more that were neither – dying of love for them.

Since I was the baby of the family, I was a little spoiled. After our mother had left us three years earlier, my father took it upon himself to act in her place, as a sort of “surrogate mother,” as he called it. And although this arrangement seemed to work tolerably well for the first month or so, my sisters felt, and still do to this day, that they were the ones who actually raised me. Thus my sisters were also the ones who changed my name, believing that “Mel” was less misleading and, therefore, more appropriate.

Our father didn’t seem to notice that there was any egregious, and deplorable, difference between his first two daughters and his youngest. On the contrary, he used to smile at us over the dinner table and say how pleased he was that we were growing into three such dissimilar individuals; that he felt sorry for families who looked like petals from the same flower. For a while his lack of perception hurt me, and I suspected him of hypocrisy; but in time I came to be grateful for his generous blindness. I could talk to him openly, about my dreams for the future, without fear of his pitying me or doubting my motives.

The only comfort I had in being my sisters’ sister was that I was “the clever one.” To a certain extent this was damning me with faint praise, in the same category as accepting my given name as an epithet accurately reflecting my limited worth – it was the best that could be said of me. Nevertheless, my intellectual abilities gave me a release, and an excuse. I shunned company because I preferred books; and the dreams I confided to my father were of becoming a scholar in good earnest, and going to University. Since I believed my father could do anything – except of course make me worthy of my name – I worked and studied with passionate dedication, lived in hope, and avoided society and anything that would be considered musical.

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That's all for now!
Thanks for reading...