A girl named Cliché entered the classroom. “I’m Cliché” she said. She had a habit of announcing herself when entering a room. It was always followed by an awkward moment. No one ever bothered to tell her the announcement was unnecessary. “Am I late?” she whispered to the student in front of her as she sat down. “Nah, the professor isn’t here yet.”

“I’m Cliché”

“I heard. Is that like French or something?”

“No, I’m American.”

“Right.”

Cliché unpacked her purse. She pulled out her water, flower pen, and embroidered notepad that read “Cliché” on the top of each page. Tapping her nails on the desk, she awaited the start of class. She’s named Cliché because her parents decided to go with something original. Little did they anticipate she would turn out to be utterly average. She earned C’s in academics and acted as bench warmer in sports. She had a dog named “rex” and a cat named “fluffy.” Her college boyfriend, John, was in a fraternity. Cliché wrote his name over and over on her plastic China-made binders replacing the “o” with hearts; all the while dreaming of a 4 bedroom 2 bath home they’d one day share in suburbia. He would support her and she’d raise their 2.5 kids.

A middle-aged unkempt man with a much worn shoulder bag briskly walked to the front of the room. Only half of his shirt was tucked. Students straightened in their desks. “Welcome to Rhetoric and Writing 200. I’m Professor Smith.” He slammed a book onto the podium. “Here’s the textbook. Here’s the syllabus.” He held both up high like Charlton Heston from The Ten Commandments. “Your first assignment is due next class period. Write 500 words about yourself.” Professor Smith passed out the syllabus. Once each student had a copy he said, “Buy the textbook. Okay, see you next time.” He made a grand shooing gesture to the class that appeared to be caffeine induced.

Cliché panicked. Writing was by far her worst subject, but she needed this G.E. credit. Her high school and college papers were cluttered with red ink that read: “Trite,” “Banal,” and “Idiomatic.” Oh how she hated being called an idiot! With a heavy heart, Cliché shuffled out of the room amidst the herd.

That evening Cliché planted herself with her computer. She typed “Once upon a time” and then deleted. She tried again: “It was a very sunny day in 1987.” She deleted. Her phone rang: John. The sound of distraction was so sweet. “Hi, love,” she answered.

“Hi. Um, I’m gonna go out with the guys. We’re getting beers.”

“Well, that’s nice. Have a good time.”

“Cliché, I have something to say.” He paused.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“We need to break up. Cliché, it’s not you. It’s me.”

“But what do you mean it’s not me? Don’t you love me?”

“Cliché, I just need some space.”

She cried. “I can’t deal with this right now, John. I have to complete a writing assignment. You know how hard that is on me. Now you’re breaking up with me? Who is she?”

“No one. She’s no one, Cliché.”

Cliché yelled profanities into the phone at the top of her lungs. She hung up and wiped her tears. She marched to her kitchen and poured herself a large glass of Two-Buck Chuck wine, and then returned to her computer. A deep breath followed. Her fingers typed away on the keys and words suddenly took over the blank screen. In a near out of body experience, her story flowed. She began with the chance meeting of her grandparents, and wrote of their trials during the Great Depression. Sniffle, sniffle. The story of her parents’ forbidden love affair came next. Every detail about establishing themselves in a good community despite the odds came to the fore. Sniffle, sniffle. She described how desperately they wanted children and visited fertility doctors in the hopes of conceiving. Then she ventured into her own beginnings and elaborated on the day-to-day of Catholic school existence. Sniffle, sniffle. The politics and culture that framed her upbringing were exposed and critiqued. She printed her assignment and read her work line by line. Tears fell to the pages. She rearranged words, added more paragraphs, cut and pasted passages, typed her corrections, and printed a final draft. It was 5,000 words. Cliché looked at her digital clock: 4:37 am.

That afternoon Cliché handed in her paper. With bloodshot eyes, frizzy hair, and shaky hands she placed her paper on the student pile at the front table of the classroom. She heard the start of Professor Smith’s lecture on the dynamics of Creative Non-Fiction as she exited the room.

Cliché turned into a recluse the next few days. Friends told her, “Cliché, you’ve got to keep your chin up,” and “You are too good for him.” None of that helped. She befriended another bottle of Two Buck Chuck.

Monday afternoon the papers were handed back. She flipped to the back page of her assignment anxious to find her grade, but only saw “See me” in red ink. At the end of lecture Cliché approached the professor. He beamed, “Your prose is fantastic. What an original thought provoking piece, Cliché. Just magnificent. I mean, wow! What emotion and drive you have. I was so moved that I passed your paper around the faculty. Have you considered Journalism as a major?”

Cliché practically danced her way out of the room. She immediately went to the campus coffee shop, bought a non-fat latte, grabbed a seat, and pulled out her personalized notepad and flower pen. Inspiration took hold. She wrote and wrote. Clever insights invaded the pages through her busy hand. By evening she was exhausted. Before going to bed, she went to the college webpage and changed her major to Journalism. Upon clicking “submit” she thought, “Good bye, to the old Cliché. From this day onward I’m a new Cliché!”

About the Author

Gwendolyn Dolske

Gwendolyn Dolske lives in Southern California. Her work has appeared in The Camus Society Journal, San Diego State University Graduate Journal, and in The International Conference on the Arts and Humanities, Honolulu.