Writing in Public

This morning I decided that I needed to write, and I can never write at home. I need to be around people who aren't paying attention to me, in a chair that's mostly comfortable but certainly un-slump-able, so I went to a café. This particular café had a special today, so I could get both a coffee and a chocolate croissant, and it's also got windows which let in the perfect amount of light on an overcast day like today.

I've been going on lots of errands instead of writing. Errands, if I'm honest, are not so bad. I enjoy going on everyday quests to accomplish the things that adults need to accomplish in their day: acquiring groceries, getting gas, yard work. The real problem is that most of these errands include shopping, and shopping more than two days in a row always upsets me. Part of this is the anxiety I have around spending money, but more than that, shopping overwhelms me with a staggeringly broad range of choices for me, the consumer.

Well, I'd much rather be consuming my chocolate croissant. And, to be honest, eavesdropping on strangers out celebrating birthdays and getting published and normal Wednesdays. I'd rather be writing somethings, anything. Putting something out into the world, instead of devouring it from store shelves. This is not a unique opinion, of course. The fact that it's so shared makes it extra special, I think.

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The Patio

Where gray polyvinyl chloride meets Drying strands of grass, like wheat Which makes no grain, only waves In sunlit breezes through the day. Chairs older than my oldest tooth Wear metal grating wound with roots From ivys which do not know poison, Only sweet tea, coffees, the noise one Makes when they step into the morning After a night full of dreams like warnings. The wind chimes snake-rattle, the mint leaves Attempt infinity, bound in a pot that won't keep. And the sun loves me here. He sings To the top of my head, and makes me king.

Books About Writing

I write, I read, I read about writing. I think that books about writing are some of the strangest in the world. Also, yes, they can be extremely dry. I admit it! A writer can be witty and hilarious and profound, but ultimately a chapter about meter will follow a certain pattern, beat-for-beat (Yes, I feel clever for that). Luckily, I like meter very much. I bet that everybody likes some writing about writing. In an intro-level literature class, we all read an excerpt of Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird, an essay called "Shitty First Drafts," and I can say with confidence that at least half of us genuinely enjoyed it, and another thirty percent valiantly pretended to. Half is not so bad for one assigned reading. Mary Oliver understands my burning need for examples in her poetry handbook, and graciously provides me with one every other page. Richard Hugo is not afraid of a monologue in Triggering Town, and I like him so much that I don'...

My Crappy Dorm Room

I'm moving out of my crappy dorm room tomorrow, and then I'll be back in my home town for a few months. I'm going to wake up in the morning, file paperwork with Human Resources, take a final exam, ferry boxes and bags into a car which will drive to the storage locker place, ferry the boxes and bags into the storage locker, drive the car back to my crappy dorm room, ferry more boxes and bags into the car, drive the car back home to my parents' house, and then I'm going to fall asleep, surrounded by unpacked things which I can only imagine will be resentful of their cardboard trappings and will probably haunt me in my nightmares. I'm really looking forward to it. The truth is that I've come to love my crappy dorm room. One time, me and my roommate saw a fawn walking by a meter from our window. My walls were covered in postcards from people important to me. We filled the room up with lamps so we never had to turn on the ugly florescent overhead light. Yes, we...

Every Day a Love Letter

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