I’ve had this little project tucked in its folder for the last month. Today, I pulled it out again—reading through it all and making notes. Being a freelance journalist is my dream and goal, but since I was little, I’ve always wanted to write a novel. Who says I can’t be a writer of both non-fiction and fiction?
I worked on this story for my last semester of college, it was supposed to be a finished novella by the end of the semester; however, it took so many twists and turns (and I am a way slower writer of fiction than I thought I was) the story changed so much. By the end, I only came out with about 20 good(ish) pages. Today I have determinded that I’m going to keep working on it.
I’m not sure what it’s going to be once it’s finished, maybe that novella, maybe a novel, maybe just a story the little kid I was growing up needed, but, no matter what it turns into, I’m going to show up and write it.
Ridges and red rocks surrounded us 360º, and we were in the center of it, dangling from a little gondola, 1,053 feet above the ground. The little gondola slid along as I snapped pictures of the scenic view. The mountains were hues of blue in the distance and the red canon rock flamboyantly showed off its splendor. Below was the Arkenswa river, rushing past, making white caps while the water pushed past the rocks. And amongst it all was the bridge — the largest suspension bridge in America — standing its ground, tall and proud.
While walking across the bridge you could look down and see through the crakes between the plants. It was kind of insane to think about how such a structure could keep that high you up and let you view for miles.
Around mid-day, we made the climb down the gorge, through the mountains and out to the plains. The thing that’s cool about being out in the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains is that when you look North, you see a big rocky wall that ripples and winds. Yet, just turn your head to the South and you can see as far as your eyes can see. There’s nothing for miles and miles. I can definitely say that this day was one for the books.
English 202 // 08
I woke up, 8:29. The sun illuminating my room, through the sheers. I gave the pages and the ink my morning; wrote poetry, drank coffee. I listened to french jazz music and made cinnamon rolls. I got ready and curled my hair. I was ready by dix heures et demie du matin (ten thirty in the morning). I left soon after that…
I walked into a small bookshop, and bought a book. A poetry book. A book of poetry by Mary Oliver, to be exact. Then I took myself and my newly boughten book to the teahouse around the corner. It smelled of tea leaves, and the window seat was open and free. The window seat is my favorite seat in the whole cafe. I ordered black vanilla mint, it was $2.50, and then sat down in the golden stream of light, warm and inviting. I read poetry, occasionally looking up and out at the passerby’s and the lone tree swaying in the wind. At 1:45 I got up and made my way to class. We talked about poetry and rhythm and rhyme. It was good. I rarely get days like these, and I’m trying to fix that.
I made my way home on the country roads. The wide, blue sky stretched out, flaunting it’s vastness. The sun near the horizon, because it’s close to winter now and the sun sets early. I think I’m getting old, because time seems to pass to quickly. There was a slow driver in front of me. I passed him on the right, though I probably shouldn’t have, I need to learn how to go a little slower.
Once I got home, I called my mom and put some water in the kettle to make green tea. (I like tea, don’t you see?) I put peppermint in it, because peppermint makes everything good. It’s dark outside, 6:45. I’m just now realizing how fast, yet slow, life goes. Moving two speed, simultaneously.
I rarely get days like these. I rarely stop to take a peak at what life offers other than just running…