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. 


These twenty-six letters are my safe haven, my way of cultivating. 
I use them to reveal parts of me, a mountain range under a withdrawing sea. 
I want to show truthfully and intricately the stars that are in me. 
Writing has become my century.
A vanity of shorts, where the pages can be folded into to mirrors of reality, 
reflecting the world as I see it.
People can see me through the words I pour out onto the page, 
but when they see too much, I can suck them back into my
lungs and lock them there, safely. 

I live between the lines of A&Z.

a little something I had to write for english class

She — a long curly haired, porcelain skinned, twenty-something — is one of those people you might see in the corner of a small coffee shop. She’d gaze over the lid of her laptop, then type fast as though the words from within her can’t make it out quick enough, then gaze again. A notebook beside her, open to a page covered in a slightly sloppy cursive that one could barely read, even if they tried. Her coffee, cold and forgotten, sits there in a melancholy state and her phone, buzzing like a busy bee waiting for replies. She still types away.

If you look up from your book and watch her long enough, you might see her crack a smile as she writes. She just got to a good part. Enjoy that and let her enjoy that. Enjoy it before the anxiety comes back and strips it away only to leave fear of the words not being good enough to satisfy the readers on the other side. If you knew her well enough, you’d know that she has a too high of a respect for the art of literature. That whatever she makes she scrutinizes harshly. Her words barely make it out into the light of the day. 

Lifting her hands away from the beaten keyboard, she combs back her hair between her fingers away from her face and rolls up her indigo sleeves a quarter below her elbow. She stares at what she has just produced on the page, neither pleased nor dissatisfied. Looking around, she comes out of the story and back to the room. The clamor of small talk and sent of roasted beans makes for a nice welcoming back into reality. 

She grabs her bag, closes her laptop and notebook, and stuffs them away. Realizing her coffee that was left for the cold, she takes a last sip and dumps the rest of it in the trash. The bells on the door cling as she opens it, and out she steps, into the cool October air. She walks away.

You almost go back to your book until you see a little slip of paper on the table where she was sitting. You get up and nonchalantly walk over to see what it says. You can tell it was from her because it held the same sloppy cursive that was between the pages of her notebook. It reads:
I saw you watching me. Don’t worry, I wrote you into my story.
You look out to see if she’s still in sight, but she’s gone. Lost in the wind, an author by any other name.

Week One of College

Be messy and complicated and afraid and show up anyway.
Glennon Doyle Melton 

That, my friends, is how I felt about this week. My first-week of school of my last semester before I graduate with my associate’s degree (that’s a crazy thing to write down, by the way). On Monday, knots were in my stomach, not because I didn’t particularly want to start school, but because the thought of starting school meant that I’m moving one step closer the next part of my life and I don’t quite know what that next part holds. I’ve been itching to get out of this season that I’m currently in, but now that I’m actually on the verge of doing so, I’m back peddling.

Why am I doing this?

Why and I swimming back upstream when all I wanted for the longest time was to move faster down it?

To be honest, I don’t know. I don’t know why this fear grips me so tight. I think it could possibly be the unknown. The fact that, even though I plan and have an idea of where I’m going to go or do what I’m going to do, it’s never for certain, there is always the possibility of things falling through. There is also the fact that it could not be like I imagine it would be once I get there.
Never the less, all these feelings came up on the first day of the last few months before things change. This is the time before it changes. The calm waters before the hurricane. And Just thinking of it all made me afraid.
I showed up anyway, though. I showed up, even with my messiness, my complicatedness, my afraidness. All of it. And you know, moving toward a new area of life isn’t so bad ( and my French III professor is this nicest one professor you could ever have).
So all of this is to say, I made it through, the first week, at least. And I’ll keep making it through, through the normal and through the change and through the new. Through all of this life, I’ll make it.

You will, too. Despite the mess, the complex, and the fear show up anyway.


The ripples 
and folds —
hues of blue
gently flowing down
the stream
amongst the rocks and sticks and muddy seams.
Though they are quite and soft,
they hold secrets of the past 
of tumbling 
off the edge of the cascade,
free falling.
No one would know just by a glance
that the ripples were once wilds,

roaring into the evergreens.