Contessa Leans a Lesson

Hey, good morning, I’m Benedict Rollings, author of over one hundred children’s books. I have delivered more than my share of happily ever after endings than any other author I know. I don’t wish to brag, but I just can’t help it. So, my agent once asked me, “Ben, how have you come up with so many successful publications?” Well, Ken, I told him, I have been blessed with a very active imagination where I feel as if I have a personal relationship with all of my pro and antagonists. Then he raised an eyebrow and asks, “Has any of your characters ever caused you some problems as you created their story?” And I tell him, Ken as a matter of fact, there was one character who did cause me more than a few tribulations. And if you have the time, I’d like to tell you all about her.

Contessa lived in the magical kingdom of Merry Ole Ogden where she was the King Crombie’s daughter, the Princess Contessa. According to the story, Contessa was beloved to both her parents despite her uncontrollable rage from time to time. No one was quite sure why Contessa was so inclined to rage, but one thing was understood, her rages were legendary.

The reason I know this was because she was not happy with how I wrote her.

Yes, my characters are supposed to be fictional, but in her case her fiction had the power to come right off the page. Believe me, I know, because this is what she did to me when I wrote The Princess of Merry Ole Ogden.

“Mr. Rollings you are illustrating me as fat.” She noted when I put my pen to paper.

“My dear lady, it is merely an illustration.” I glanced over at her. What I had drawn on the page was a good and precise rendition of her as she stood there peering over my shoulder. When I decided to write this tale, her father, the king warned me that she could be a bit headstrong at times.

“Please be careful with my daughter.” He implored me, “As she is a bit sensitive about certain things.”

He did not go into any detail what some of those things might be, but I quickly found out what they were. In the process I switched from pen to pencil, because pencil is much easier to erase. If I were to suggest that she was a bit spoiled, it would an understatement to say the least.

“She is, I dare say, a bit like her mother.” He whispered this to me which at the time I thought rather odd. The more I wrote and erased, the more I understood what he had told me. It was becoming ever so clear to me now. According to her father’s testimony, she had been rescued from the liar of a dragon by a brave and noble knight. Delighted by his deed, he promised her hand to him in marriage, but she did not think the brave knight was handsome enough.

“What do you wish me to do, Contessa?” I asked holding my illustrating pen.

“I want to be much thinner and blonde.” She put her thumb in the middle of my illustration, smearing my ink.

“Blonde, but my lady, your auburn hair is quite striking.” I insisted.

“Nooooo.” She protested, “On social media all of the young eligible gentlemen prefer blondes.”

“Indeed.” I scowled ripping the page right out of its binding. “Shall we proceed?”

“How come you/re so crabby?” She asked, “You’re just like my father.”

“I assure you that I am not.” I was resisting the urge to paddle her for her insolence, but decided digression was the better part of valor. I wondered with the Grimm Brothers had such difficulties. It took me a few minutes to draw her as she wished.

“No, I look mean in that picture.” She shook her head.

I sighed heavily. Perhaps I was projecting a bit too much.

“I shall fix it.” I smiled

“Good, I don’t want your readers to think I am a meany.” She began to comb her doll’s hair herring bone brush. “This is my doll, Tessia. She is pretty just like me.”

“I can see that.” I shrugged thinking perhaps if she remained preoccupied with her porcelain doll, she’s leave me alone to write and illustrate the story.

“Would you like to brush her hair?” She asked.

“No my lady, I must continue writing.” I shook my head and picked up my pencil.

“Writing is boring.” She continued combing her doll’s hair.

“I don’t think so.” I chuckled.

“What do you mean, ‘She was somewhat spoiled?’” She was looking over my shoulder again catching me in a bit of honesty.

“Nothing.” I began to erase my words.

“I am not spoiled.” She informed me in a rather loud challenging voice.

“It was my error.” I said under my breath, gritting my teeth as I spoke.

“How many books have your written?” She resumed combing her doll’s hair as she kicked her feet sitting in the high-back cushioned chair.

“Dozens.” I answered as I resumed writing.

“That’s a lot.” She seemed awestruck which boosted my ego a bit.

“Most of my books are about people I have never met, though.”

“How come?” She asked.

“Because they all live up here.” I tapped the side of my head with my index finger.

“How can people live up there?” She tilted her head as if she could not believe what I had just said.

“It’s call imagination.” I answered with a knowing smile. “They do not seem to mind if I give them blonde or auburn hair either.”

“Well, I have a lot of wigs at home so I can change to whatever I want.” She told me with a slight nod of her head. “This way when my parents take me out into public, I can choose what color my hair will be.”

“Thrilling, I’m sure.” I shrug with an I-could-care-less expression on my face. I hold up the illustration I have just completed.

She closely looks over my work.

“I suppose it will do.” She sighs, but she has not removed her finger from her chin.

“I think it is perfect.” I put the page back on my desk.

“I would not call it perfect, but it will do.” She begins to comb her doll’s hair once more. “I know Jack-Be-Nimble and Peter Pumpkin Eater.”

“I have heard of them.” I say it out of the side of my mouth.

“Have you met them?” She looks up at me.

“Only in rhyme.” I add another line to the narration.

“I would never say that.” She puts her finger on the line I have just written, once again smearing the pencil on the page.

“This is why they call it fiction. You can make stuff up.” I cannot hide the agitation in my voice.

“I don’t want you to make stuff up.” She slowly shakes her head letting her curls fall around her face like a misbegotten halo.

“It’s what I do.” I speak through gritted teeth.

“Lie?”

“It’s not lying.” I cannot unclench my jaw.

“If you make stuff up, it’s called lying.” She points out.

“Contessa, if I’m going to write this, I need you to be quiet and comb your doll’s hair.” I look away so she will not see my angry eyes.

“I’m bored.” She wails.

“Then go have a look around my parlor.” I point to the next room. The door is still open so she can wander over to the parlor. I just need her out of the way so I can finish this book.

“Do you have toys in there?” She asks tilting her head once again.

“Not that I am aware of.” I put my head on my hand as I begin to feel another headache coming. “Take Tessia with you, so I can finish this.”

“You are grouchy which is also like my father.” She jumps off the chair and scurries into the parlor. For a few very brief moments, I am left in peace as I write a few more pages. My precious peace is interrupted by a sudden crash from the parlor where I hear her singing a song.

“Mr. Rollings?” Her voice is small.

“What?” I am afraid to venture to the parlor myself to see what she has done.

“Something fell and broke.” She confesses.

“I wonder what it is.” I stand and reluctantly follow her into the parlor. When I reach to glass shard pile in the middle of the carpeted room, I see my Newberry Certificate in the middle of the pile for Ben Grows Up. Somehow it was taken off the wall and dropped. I have a pretty good idea how this came about, but I hold my tongue hoping she will confess to her carelessness. She does not. Closing my eyes, I let my head drop. My career highlight was when I was presented that certificate, but now it’s just shreds of paper in the middle of a pile of glass and wooden splinters of frame.

“It sort of fell.” She explained.

“In the middle of the room?” I shake my head, “It was hanging on the wall over there.” I pointed to the empty hook where it had once hanged.

“I have seen the same thing happen to my father’s hunting trophies.” She kicked at the carpet with his toe still holding her doll. “Sometimes Tessia gets a little carried away.”

“No, it’s you who gets carried away.” I Squat down to look her in the eyes. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” She answers somewhat wary at my question.

“You should know better.” I say every word like a sentence. “You are too old to be playing with dolls.”

“Yes…” Her voice squeaks.

“You are too old to be playing like a child.” I point to the wreckage in the middle of the room.

“You’re mean.” She whimpers.

“Dang right.” I snap, “I want to write the book about you, but I’m having some misgivings. Almost like a writer’s block.”

“Can you make me nice?” She asks as she glances over at the wreckage.

“I could…” I hesitate.

“People are always saying that I’m not nice.” She puts a finger in her hair and twirls one of her curls.

“Have you thought of being nice?” I shrug.

“It’s so hard.” She whines.

“Why do you find it hard?” I ask as I cross my arms over my chest.

“I dunno…I guess I just don’t have it in me.” She walked into my office.

“It’s not something that’s in you, it’s something that you have to learn.” I shook my head.

“Can you teach me?” She leans forward in excitement. It pops into my head that no one has ever explained good behavior to her.

“I could, but you’d have to be patient.” I rest my chin in my open hand.

“I promise. I hate always being the one who is misbehaving.” She is on the verge of tears. “None of my friends ever want to come to my birthday parties. They all make lame excuses and say mean things behind my back.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” I nod, “When do you wish to start?”

“Right away.” She leans forward in her chair.

And so we began in what I call “Lesson in Civility.” I had a book on my shelf in my library in the office. I took the book off my shelf and opened it to the first page. I must admit, I am no Henry Higgins, but then Contessa wasn’t Eliza Doolittle either. In the beginning, things went slowly as Contessa kept losing her bearing as she resorted back to her old bad habits.

“When you burb, you are supposed to say ‘Excuse me.’” I read it right out the book so she knew I wasn’t making it up.

“BARRRAPPP!” She put her hand over her mouth, “Excuse me.”

“Much better.” I complimented her.

“What the burp or the excuse me part?”

As I said, it was slow going.

I was taken by surprise when King Crombie paid me a visit. Wearing his kingly vestments and his powder white wig. Removing his wig after he took his seat, I was startled to see the good king was as bald as a cue ball.

“I must know what you have done to my fair young daughter.” He glared at me.

“We have been working on etiquette.” I answered as he did not appear to be pleased.

“What else?” He crossed his arms and tilted his head back.

“How to be civil, I suppose.” I shrugged.

“Whatever it is…” He paused, “Please continue by all means.”

I had never seen him smile and it came as quite a shock, if I am to be quite frank.

“I just thought she already learned these things.” I shook my head.

“No, it was a lost cause. The queen and I had assumed her ill-temper was inherited and there was nothing that could be done.” He leaned back appearing quite pleased with the results. “I know you think of us…all of us as nothing more than characters in your book, but I assure you that we have something to say that is of value.”

“I am well aware of that, your majesty.” I nodded.

“Contessa was visited by three fairies upon her birth. Each blessed out daughter in their own way.” He stroked his beard as he spoke, “But one of them was in a foul mood upon arriving at the palace. She scorned Contessa once she started to wail. She was off-put by her crying and so she blessed Contessa with a curse.”

“A curse?” I was stunned.

“Yes, and quite a foul one to be blunt about it.” He shook his head, but his eyes were still focused on the office window. “Raising her was quite a challenge. I felt awful, because often time during palace celebrations, I was forced to lock her in her room. I felt like the antagonist in my own fairy tale story.”

“I never knew you faced such tribulation.” I shook my head in sympathy for him. When you see a king ride through the streets of the village, you think how wonderful his life must be living in luxury. You never think that such suffering is taking place behind those walls.

“I have-we both have.” He put his hand to where a single tear had formed. He sniffed as I put some tissues before him, “Thank you, kind sir. Have you written the book about my daughter?”

“It is almost done, but you have added some valuable insight that I must add.” I nodded.

“She must not know of our meeting.” He leaned back in his chair, “Contessa has been lead to believe that I was the one who cursed her.”

“But you did not.” I leaned forward.

“Contessa needs a scapegoat and I seem to be it.” He chuckled.

“But you don’t have to be.”

“Ah, but it is easier this way.” He smiled and winked.

“I understand.” I inhaled.

“And you unknowingly broke the curse which is far more valuable to me at this point.” He stood up and held out his hand which I shook, “Adieu.”

“Adieu, your majesty.” I bowed slightly as he left my office in a very jovial mood.

When I penned Contessa Learns a Lesson, I felt as if this was one of the best children’s book I had ever written. The story of the young princess rolled off the page as she learns how to treat people with respect and veneration. When my book hit the shelves at Barnes and Noble, I received reviews that made my heart sing. Book signings were a real pleasure. Instead of parents who were grumpy with misbehaved children, they would shake my hand smiling as they commended me on illustrating good behavior for a change. I felt very proud.

“Hey.” A familiar voice at one of my signings made he abruptly turn around.

“Hey.” I said back to Princess Contessa who was dressed in her royal garb. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” I bowed slightly as I had for her father.

“Things are much better for me.” She nodded, “The entire court now sees me as a young lady and not a spoiled brat.”

“I am truly glad.” I smiled.

“I’m glad I came to you.”

“You were the first fictional character who ever came to me.” I kissed her hand.

“It was my pleasure.” She blushed a bit, “I have to go. My carriage is waiting for me in the parking lot. You know how carriages can take up to three parking spaces.”

“I do.”

“I really liked the book.” She held it up so I could wee it. I took it from her and autographed the front page. “Thank you again.”

You never know when a few words can change a person’s life even if the person is only make believe.