Storytellers and Coffee Shops

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. 

Colorado – The Royal Gorge

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. 


Life has gotten to me again, but today, I’m stopping it all and taking a moment to enjoy the weather, iced coffee, a book, and the greenness that has flooded my back yard. I haven’t been able to write these past few days so getting to take the time to sit and type a few words is a nice thing.

I went and bought a fern, a cactus, and a few succulents today. Lowe’s was as busy as you would expect it to be on a sunny spring day. People clamoring like ants around the herbs, potted flowers, and hanging plants. Some trying out the outdoor cushions and couches. I went straight to the sea of green. All the plants and grasses and succulents make me feel at home and full of life. Green is my favorite color and that’s one of the reasons why. 
It took me about 10 minutes to pick out which fern I wanted. There were big ones and small ones and one that looked like they contained a small jungle under the leafy greens. I picked one that was sort of in the middle, small enough to hang on my hook at home but still had the jungle likeness to it. I picked out a flowering cactus and a few succulents, too. 
After I made it through the checkout, fought traffic, and make it back home, I realized I didn’t have any potting soil, so I had to go back out again. This time I went to Menards, which was a good choice because compared to Lowe’s, it was completely dead and the soil was cheaper.
The second time I pulled up into my driveway I was ready to tackle the task of putting the succulents in their pots with the potting soil. I forgot how much I love potting plants, making them a little home to grow and bloom. The soil got under my fingernails and made the palms of my hands black as cole. It was soft and moist and pure. It was reliving, sticking the roots of the plants down into the soil, giving them a chance at life and a new surrounding. Planting seeds are the same way, only you’re waiting and praying the little seedling break through the topsoil with little green leaves. Growing up towards the light, higher than high.
That reminds me of when I was little. I used to love plants but I was never able to have them. I always thought that if I was just about to get the seeds, then I could take some dirt from the garden out back and use the pot I painted for school. I remember once I tried to use the seeds from a fruit. I can’t remember what fruit it was, an apple, I think. I extracted them from the core and the rushed up to my room to get the pot. Inconspicuously I when outside and collected the dirt I needed, then slowly, I placed the seeds down into the soil and watered it with tap water. 
The seeds didn’t grow like I hoped they would. There were several things I did wrong. I planted the seeds too deep in the soil and I used our softened tap water. It was then I learned that soften water is never good for plants. Once my mom figured out what I did she and I went out to the store and bought a packet of flower seeds and then she helped me plant them the correct way. The flowers poked through the soil grew little sprouts and turned into colorful blooms. Now that I’m sitting here thinking about it, I’ve always had a love for plants like that, in all their greenness. 
Sitting outside listening to the birds’ chirp is a nice way to end the evening. My dog is running around getting into mischief every now and then. She’s so curious and full of wonder. When you’re only four months old, the world is a whole expanse just waiting to be explored, even when the world is just your back yard. 

“I’m headed home with three plates of food and two bags you can’t look in, easter is coming you know.” – my mother to me while talking on the phone. 

Other Than Just Running

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…

Fragments From 11:29pm

It’s 11:29 pm and I wish I could be sleeping right now. My eyes are tired and probably bloodshot, yet my mind is keeping me awake, pondering about tomorrow’s workload, the long list of tasks that need to be done, and if I’ll be able to meet up with a new friend this Tuesday. My room is completely dark except for the glow coming from my computer screen. My white bed sheets reflecting the light, making it luminous.
 I’m here, I’m up, whether I want to be or not. I’m going to write. 

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  I’ve read that when people — artist particularly  — are up this late, not able to sleep, they end up creating beautiful pieces of art or writing. It’s when they work best. In the quietness, while everyone else is resting. The night stars make a great companion when getting all your ideas out onto paper or canvas. I wish I could do that. That’s kind of what I’m longing to create right now, as my brain foils and tumbles, all I wish to do is create something of worth, something of importance, a piece that will mean something to someone out there somewhere. A lot of some’s. 

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I wish creating was as easy as some people describe it to be. The elegant, romantic, un-agonizing way of making a masterpiece. I wish it was that easy. I wish I wish, I wish. But it’s not. It’s hard and toiling and lonesome. It’s excruciating at some points. Where your just fighting with yourself just to write, just to get something out on the page. It’s not as easy as some people think or make it out to be. Art is a glorious, wonderful thing that you birth out of long hours and late nights and still, quiet, lonesome bedsides. It’s not something that just happens on a whim, very rarely is it that, it’s worked connately with, you mold it and shape it like a potter does when he’s making a pot. You have to work with your hands and put int a lot of hours. Time, patience, and pain create the most beautiful art out there in existence. I’m just lucky enough to be able to create.

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I think I’ve learned why an English major has to have four semesters of a foreign language as a part of their schooling. When you learn a language that is not your own and that you did not learn at a young age, you really have to submerge yourself in it; become one with it. You have to dive deep in the dialect and words and sounds that are not your own, that are foreign to you and try to understand and learn them. That language, for someone else, is a way of speaking and communicating. It’s a part of their daily lives that, without it, they couldn’t get along. Writing is an art of language and communication, and there are different languages to that art. It only makes sense to learn and diciest another language other than your own because in by doing that, you not only get more depth about the art of language, but you understand your own native language better. You’re able to take apart and see how each salable, each noun, each letter comes together to make something so powerful it’s able to rip someone’s heart in two. 
Language is a powerful thing, and when we take the step to sink into one more than our own native language, we’re able to understand the depths of it on a deeper level. I think that might be, at least one some reason, why English majors have to take 4 semesters worth of a foreign language. For me, that is French. And so far, I love it deeply. 
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Never so much in my life have I realized this strongly that I want to be a writer. 
    Throughout elementary school and middle school, I wrote in journals constantly. Writing entries, newspaper articles, stories, and poems. I loved it. It was a way of freedom and processing. I never thought,at least at that age that I’d turn it into something I’d do for the rest of me life. 
  Once I got into high school I kind of tossed the idea of being a writer out the window because I didn’t think it fit me. I thought I’d outgrown it. I threw around the idea of being a singer/songwriter, then a painter, then a designer, and then a photographer. I thought those fit me better until I slowly started to outgrown one idea and into another, all the while I’d always unconsciously go back to writing. 
When I was trying to pick a major for college, I couldn’t decide. I went my whole first year not quite knowing what I wanted to major in. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I decided to double major in Writing and Literacy and Creative Writing. It feels good to have that decision done, and it feels good because I know it’s a right one. 
Whatever I’ve done throughout my life I’ve always gone back to writing, so I know, whatever my job may be in the future, that it will be something involving writing. It’s in my DNA. 
As I said, it’s not until just now that I’ve realized that I want to be a writer so bad. Digging deeper into it, gaining knowledge and understanding, figuring out who I am all led me to realize how much I love and depend on this art forum to express me and make me who I am. Not through anything else have I discovered more about myself than through putting words on a page. The pull, the strong pull I asked God to put there when I make tough dissections, is there when I think of writing as part of my future. Just thinking about how it can be intertwined in my daily life makes me giddy. It makes me want to start now, which I probably should, I just have to balance everything else along with it. 
I just know, now deep in my heart, after all, this struggle, that writing, the art of language, is the right thing for me. I know it. I can feel it. I still have so much to learn, though. I’m not perfect yet and I’m far from being there. I’m taking college as my chance to move up more on the spectrum, learn, grow, and be the best I can be. 

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It’s 12:29pm now and I think I can finally get some sleep, Goodnight.