Tag: Writing

Life, Writing

Storytellers and Coffee Shops

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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. 

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smudgy ink

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I have a mess of thoughts in my mind that I can’t collect into words quite yet. There is an exhaustion of pages and smudgy ink that I have toiled over, again and again. Trying to etch down my thoughts, but they haven’t come like I hoped. The words wont run smoothly on the page just yet. I think they need more time to soak in the vast light that is not the written page. I’ll give it a few days, then I’ll come back again and try again.  Maybe they just weren’t meant to be smooth and elagent, maybe they are just supposed to be the truth.
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Other Than Just Running

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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…
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some poetry

by itsmeganelaine2 Comments on some poetry
English 202 // 07

// Listen //

I often create poems
when I least expect it.
In the car,
on the swing,
under the lamp post,
while working.

So many times
I have no paper,
no pen
no pad
no touch of vapor.

They’re there in my head
to and fro
out in a whisper
there they go.

Those poems
so raw and so clean,
float off in the air
never to be seen

Again. 

______________

I’m learning. 

Learning to care less  

about the  

seemingly important. 

And learning to care more 

about the 

seemingly less. 

______________

The wind billows through the tree
ripping off the leave,
shaking it’s seams.

The leaves, they fall
leaving the tree,
making their way down to the ground
waiting to be seen.

Yet humans stomp them
beneath their feet 
only to find that their beauty 
is unseen.

They’re life
gone.
So quick and so sheen. 
If only they could live
to tell there story.