Coffee: French Roast, Trader Joe’s Brand
I was one of those kids who wouldn’t tell his parents a lick about the schoolday.
“How was it?”
I was similarly stonefaced with friends.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
It was two things: a bit of adolescent embarrassment and a deeper fear that if I let on about the things that moved me, they’d lose their magic somehow. Oh how the times have changed.
As an aspiring author and daily blogger, my life’s cut open like a cleaned fish. There aren’t enough things happening outside of me to have the option of sequestering myself. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I needed to be open. But that’s a topic for a therapist.
I started to notice the effects of this a couple years ago as I was writing a book. The book was about Japan, about Yamakasa – a Fukuoka festival I’d attended in 2014. The scenes and settings are yanked out of my memory and tinkered until they fit the story. I’ve never had the knack of a fantasy author – the spark of creation, so to speak – so all my writing pulls heavy from places I’ve been and breathed.
Anyway, as I was writing this book, a funny thing happened: when I’d daydream about my time in Fukuoka, I started to see myself in the novel’s version of the city. If I’d changed the name of this or that restaurant, or maybe moved a cafe across town, the memory of me walking her August streets took me through the story; I had trouble digging back to where I’d really been. It was startling. I felt I’d lost something. Well, I had. I had replaced that ‘something’ with words.
I figure that’s why so many writers drink (or otherwise touch oblivion): you cut apart what’s most precious to feed your work.
I wouldn’t give it up. I really couldn’t at this point. In a way, I’m still yelling “Fine!” and “Nothing!” Only now those words ring true to everything outside the book.
Novel Count: 11,198 words
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker
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All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.Ernest Hemingway