So, I went to see my therapist the other day and I showed her some of my work (Mutated). She noticed I always write as a female character and challenged me to write as a male character. I’m not that far into the challenge, but it is very difficult, my being female and all. I hope you enjoy what I have so far!
ONE
MY muscles strain with the weight of the box. I set it down along with the others as the horn sounds, signaling the end of my and the other five workers’ shifts. I run my arm over my forehead to clear the sweat that now leaks into my eyes. Green, they are. We head back to the old-fashioned orphanage for the Poor. We’re sent to job after job to keep the orphanage in business. The reason I’m there? My parents killed in an accident when I was ten. I don’t remember it. I just know I have a scar on my leg and a limp because of it. Not a bad limp, just a slight one. I shower, and collapse on my bleached-white blanket and flat pillow, in a room full of maybe thirty beds. Not much privacy. Soon all the other orphans crawl into their beds and fall asleep. I’m still awake. I pull out a flashlight and a book and read under the covers until I fall asleep.
It’s a rest day. I read for half the day. Not many of the orphans own books or have ever read one, but most of us know how to read. It is the twenty-second century, after all. I flip the book closed, tuck it under my mattress, and walk down to the basement. In the process I run into Derrick, a seventeen-year-old orphan with big muscles and wild black hair. In the basement I find the orphanage doctor’s office. Mrs. Ferris greets me with a hug and a smile. She’s maybe thirty with auburn hair and blue eyes.
“Hey, Jorden. How did you enjoy the book?” she asks. She’s the one that gave it to me, sensing my superior intelligence, far above the other orphan’s. I smile.
“It was great. I only have a few chapters left,” I tell her. My voice is the average voice for a male, I would say.
“William Golding is an amazing author,” Ferris agrees. She turns her back to type away on her computer. “When you’re done with that book, just come to me. I’ll give you Great Expectations. Now that is a good book.” She turns back to me, smiles, and passes me a thick book. “Just in case you finish early.” I nod my thanks and exit. For the rest of the day, I finish reading The Lord of the Flies and start Great Expectations. I don’t know why, but I like how desperately the boy tries to impress the girl. Quite… interesting.
TWO
“JORDEN, you have been assigned a new job. Law Enforcers were watching you along with the other workers the other day. They deemed you, Keelen, and Derrick worthy of serving at the Banquet this Saturday. The Elite family will be there. You probably know them, Queen Annie Elite, King Pinn Elite, Prince Charles Elite, and Princess Bella Elite,” the owner of the orphanage, John Leigh, told me the next day. Saturday is tomorrow. “You have to spend the day practicing.” Well, as you can imagine, that day was bor-ing. I was taught how to hide my limp and how to carry two trays loaded with drinks and plates. All that waiter stuff. So I feel pretty good about tomorrow.
The next day, I straighten the bow tie of my suit and run my hands across the jacket. I’ve never worn a suit before, except at my parent’s funeral. A car arrives for the three of us, Keelen, Derrick and I. We soon arrive. No guests are there. We put on tablecloths and set up centerpieces. I don’t know what the Banquet is for, exactly, and I don’t really care. As long as it gives me money and keeps the orphanage open (at least for the few months I have left there). Guests soon start to trickle in through the giant gate-like double doors. The doors are translucent with ornate light blue patterns on them. They give me kind of a pixie vibe. I set up fancy little dishes of hors d’oeuvre. There are maybe fifty to one hundred waiters from all different places. For one thousand plus members of the nobility. We’ve got our work cut out for us. I rush around, serving drinks and appetizers and entrées. No sign of the Elite family. They make their grand entrance as I’m walking a tray of cocktails over to a table of drunken guests, I am not to deny them a drink, no matter how intoxicated they get. Everyone goes silent as King Pinn and Queen Annie take their seats at the head of a long table, filled with their closest family and friends. The Queen wears a white gown. The King wears a bright, sky-blue tux. Next arrives Prince Charles, who wears a shiny navy blue silk tux. What is it with the royal family and blue? And then she arrives. Her brown hair is done up in a twisty-bun. Her face sparkles. Her gown is silver, dotted with glitter, trailing behind her. Princess Bella Elite. I don’t see the foot until it is too late. I’m soon covered in alcohol, a gash running across my hand from the broken glass. I put it all on the tray, run it to the kitchen, and rush out of there, not even bothering to hide my limp. I end up in the castle gardens. I lean heavily against a stone bench and press my bleeding hand against my pant leg, not even bothered that it leaves a stain on the dark fabric. I wait a few minutes to catch my breath.
“Hello?” The voice is soft, kinda honey-like, with a hint of an accent. I turn around, and my breath catches in my throat. There’s Princess Bella, in all her glittery glory. I dip in a clumsy bow. She laughs, a very quiet laugh.
“M’lady,” I say. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. The custodians had to clean up a bit of blood. Did you get cut?” Her perfectly-plucked eyebrows furrow in worry as she notices my hand. I carelessly lift up my hand and shrug.
“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I’m sorry I made such a mess.”
“Oh, it’s quite alright. I can get you a bandage, if you would like,” Bella offers. I open my mouth to object, but she’s already calling over a maid to do so. The maid soon comes back and hands her a roll of bandages.
“Hold out your hand,” she instructs. I do as she says, and she wraps it.
“Thank you,” I say.
“No problem.” She smiles. An awkward silence follows as a breeze rolls in. Bella sits down on the bench, but I stay standing. “Well, I suppose I should be getting back to the Banquet. Mother will miss me… I do hope you get home safely.” I nod as she walks away.
Realistic Fiction
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I’m also a female writer, and I actually love writing as male characters. When I write a female character, they all come out as copies of me. Because I write what I know, and I know how to be a girl. But when I write as a male character, I can’t take the easy way out; I’m forced to push beyond myself and create a brand new character.
I find that this is easier because I spend a lot of time with guys. I suggest to get better at embodying the male character, just sit and people-watch. Watch how guys interact with each other- guy friendships are much different than female ones. Watch how they walk. Watch how they carry things (women use their hips, guys don’t). Specifically listen to their conversations. What are they talking about? What are they avoiding talking about?
Honestly, the guys I’m always around are much different than most guys. They’re immature, goofy, weirdos (I mean, I’m a huge weirdo myself), and only talk about girls, inappropriate things, “Gucci Gang”, and “Eskeetit” (who comes up with these things?). So it would be a bit odd to write about guys like them but… I see what you mean, and I’ll try my best!
That’s the exact type of guys I hang out with: goofy weirdos. Except I’d guess they don’t even know what Gucci Gang and Eskeetit is. But anyway, why would it be odd to write about guys like them? They’re REAL guys. Creating characters based on real people make your stories so much better. It would be boring if you just wrote what you think the stereotypical guy is like. Don’t let the fact that your friends are weird stop you from using them as inspiration!
Thanks! For some reason I’d never thought of that… I’ll work on it!