LoV-Write

Archive for the month “September, 2014”

A Coffee Bean

I’m working in a coffee shop.

This coffee shop serves resource sensitive and environmentally conscious coffee which has been planted, grown, harvested, roasted, and transported with utmost care and delicacy. This tedious process is to ensure a high quality cup of coffee for people to enjoy for a nominal fee.

The shop serves excellent coffee, but I’ll always have a soft spot for the back-burner by-the-pot coffee of those 24-hour restaurants I grew up with, and those cheap, off-brand coffees that come in two-pound tubs: those “blue-collar” coffees of the Safeway aisle and the labor-class bulk buys.

These coffees speak in softer, more familiar tones. They call with light voices through the mild musk of ground beans and thumb a milky nose at the “finer blends” through swirls of milk and sugar.

They are crasser blends, but they are, I think, a part of my history that time will not weaken, because I have memories of coffee scented music and hazy late nights that will ever remain as coffee stain on my life’s white cloth.

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A Writer

Am I a writer?

I haven’t published in over a month, my journal is out of date, my reading neglected, and my next novels languish as half-written sentences and outlines.

Yet I have the gall to tell people I meet that I am a writer.

I give the usual excuses for not placing pen to paper and not opening the computer: I’ve been busy lately; I’m working full time and moving; and, I do think about my stories all the time.

Am I a writer if I neglect my writing in favor of thinking?

I’ve heard that Milton dictated Paradise Lost and never inked a quill; that Joyce spent days thinking over a single sentence; that Austen thought works into being that are subtle critiques of her society. They are called writers, so maybe a Writer is someone who cares for their language and thinks before they pen.

I wonder if they feared to disturb the Universe?

Am I writer if I let life and fear prevent me from writing?

When faced with the uncertainty of the future I find my pen quaking and futility sprawling across my pages. The Universe is far too vast to be disturbed by the symbols of my small ideas, and the marks a mortal leaves are faint, washable things.

Even so, after a while I find my muse nudging me back to the pages and urging me to record her stories and poetries, and to form a linguistic image from the material granted me.

“Silence is a call to reflect” she tells me, “neglect is a chance to care, and forgetfulness the moment to remember.”

I am flawed and inconsistent, but I am a writer.

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