there’s a

small black

notebook i

sort of hate

but love

with all my heart

i’ve written

in it every day

for eight months

now

scribbles at midnight

short paragraphs

during post-dream

inspiration

the pen to the

page can

feel draining

or occasionally

magical

I have written on napkins

tissues and bags

with pencils

or lipstick

or pens,

to ensure

the words

that are crowding my head

are written

before I

lose them;

I have written on trains

buses, in cars

in stores and even

restrooms,

on beaches

by lakes

or street corner lamps

on airplanes,

in restaurants

or classrooms;

I have written by the light

of a brilliant full moon

as it shone

upon my bed,

as I furiously

scribbled words

in the dark

to get them

out of my head;

so I guess

my favorite

place to write

is neither

a desk

nor table

nor chair,

but rather

wherever

an idea

is sparked,

the world entire

my favorite lair.

Every step has a rythm

as I walk

the gates of my head are unprotected

hell's ghouls may wander

free

sing their ghostly melodies

a slightly sluggish symphony

that doesn't cease

I call the madness

poetry.

One foot’s crooked like a scythe, hanging over the seat in front of me. My purple Vans sketching imaginary scribbles in the air as my fingers practically vibrate over each key with excitement at the prospect of a new story.

Then there’s the early morning burst of energy where magically two stories appear in my notes app, and I’ve got no clue where they came from or when I wrote them. When my mom comes upstairs, if I’m still writing, I’ll prolong the agony of putting down my pen and getting ready for school by yelling, “Mom! I’m a struggling author, and unless you want me leaving here forever, you’ll want me to finish my story.” It’s never worked.

I suppose there’s also the doodles on the back of my history test, curly cursive cresting over non-lined paper. At that point, it’s only three sentences jotted down about character development in the tenth chapter, but if I can just get two more words down before the bell, Mr. G, I promise it’ll be worth it.

And of course there’s the angry scrawl across new notebook paper in the middle of English because maybe this one will be the one. The one that finally buys me a real desk instead of the wall panel in the restaurant because the sunset was so magestic not to be captured in written word. The one that buys real quills and ink jars to write like the old, dead poets intended. The one that English teachers fawn over and college professors mull over and students reluctantly, yet gleefully, pore over.

Rushing through the forest,

the child dashes and turns.

He winds his way along the trails,

up the hills And through the ferns.

As he enters into the darkened forest,

a hush falls over his heart.

Soberness returns to his face,

for up ahead is the quilted

grass and the silent stream of the quite place.

His steps are slow but sure,

as he takes in the familiar sight

of the creek so clear and pure.

All around him the world is silent.

He sinks into the earth and fades away

Into his lonely thoughts,

swallowed by his imagination,

until reality finally stops.

Nothing is left but the story

playing in his mind,

soon to be ink on a page.

Years later, there he sits again,

a man with wrinkles That cover his face.

After years of delay, he finally sits back down

in his favorite place, and wonders

where the time has gone.

His path of life has turned many times,

and has brought about its change,

but the pleasure of the quite place will always in his heart remain.

As a serial procrastinator, I will do my up-most to rationalise why I am not quite ready to sit down and put words on a page.

There are the age-old excuses of housework or homework. The myriad of menial tasks that are of no importance until the moment one decides to write. Then there are others which relate more to mood or energy: I’m too tired to think, I’m too energetic to sit.

Many a time I’m too drunk, or not drunk enough, both of which can lead to the debilitating excuse of “I’m too hungover”.

Finding that sweet spot is not only near impossible, but falsely associated with being able to bleed brilliance onto the page.

As I’ve aged I have become better at identifying when I’m using the “sweet spot” excuse not to write. Yet, despite my budding awareness of such things, I still do it.

All. The. Time.

However, if we do allow ourselves to be carried on the gentle current of dilly-dally, every once in a while we can find ourselves on literary adventures.

Take, for instance, the quest for my writer’s haven.

It was clear I needed one. It was perhaps the sole reason I hadn’t written my novel yet. I hadn’t settled into my creative cubby hole.

That’s what I was missing!

My Shangri-la.

Yes, I could see it now... a place so perfect, so nurturing to my imagination, that a best-selling, Nobel-Prize winning, mind-melting masterpiece would simply manifest itself with little to no work on my part whatsoever.

I knew such a place was waiting for me. But in a world so vast and with such willingness to stall, my search was never going to be easy.

But when had I ever done easy?

The Quest for a Writer’s Wonderland

At first, I was sceptical about writing in public. Being a bit of a judgemental twat, I was of the opinion that those who set up their laptop in a cafe and got stuck into their creative endeavours in a crowd were - to be frank - attention seeking wannabes who wrote simply to tell the world they were writers. They all wore fedoras and long coats. Probably a scarf that was either far too long or far too small, each with the air of someone born in the wrong decade. So was the “coffee shop writer” in my youthful mind’s eye.

Not once did I think, “Maybe all these coffee shop writers are onto something.” Not for a second did I consider that I maybe had something to learn from these seasoned wordsmiths.

 I was arrogant, I was young, and quite ironically, I was a tad pretentious.

 However, life experience and age have - as they so often do - shown me the errors of my ways.

I have changed, my friends, I swear.

I learned the hard way. The only way a stubborn chap can.

Trial and error.

I started at home. In bed even!

I’d wake up, get a coffee, maybe a banana if I was feeling fruity, and jump back beneath the covers thinking I was the next Truman Capote.

I’d open my laptop and...

Check the news. (Best to be informed, no?)

Then I’d just quickly check emails. Facebook. The news again.

Then maybe I’d write something. Something colourless and dull. Something I’d delete half a minute later.

I’d scratch my beard.

Think.

Try ignore that little voice... That voice whose words weren’t yet heard, but were understood. I’d try. I’d think about trying harder. But, soon enough, that voice would become a siren call and I’d cave. Before I knew it, my pants would be around my ankles and I’d be scrolling through sites I know you’re all familiar with.

I know. You know. Let’s just leave it there before we get vulgar, shall we.

Once done and dusted and all cleaned up, I’d go back to writing. Maybe I’d shower quickly...Yes, I’d definitely shower.

Then I’d eat. That coffee wasn’t enough. That banana didn’t quite do it.

I’d better make scramble eggs and toast or something...

And so I would. Usually something slightly more extravagant. Something with avocado. But there’s no avocado!

Well then I’d better go to the shops and buy all the avocados!

Then in the blink of an eye, it would be 2pm and well, I might as well start drinking.

Many hours later, it’s dark outside and I’m pulling my sweaty face off my laptop keyboard, deleting 200 pages of the letter P.

 I don’t think I’m a stay at home writer.

 Fine. I’d give it a go. I’d venture outside and try some good, old, public writing. I bought a fedora and set out to find my little coffee hub.

 Now, as a pompous child, I had it in my head that this coffee shop would be artisan and quirky. I dreamed of distressed wood, scratched paint, and mismatched furniture. They’d offer things like turmeric goat-milk lattes and gluten-free beetroot cake. Old bicycles, retro telephones, and aesthetically-offensive local art-work would hang haphazardly from the walls and ceiling, perfectly framing me and my laptop as I tapped away at my novela. Ah, I could see it so clearly.

But where would one find such an establishment?

 The most glaringly obvious option was a little place called Cup & Saucy, a cool cafe nestled in the uber-hipster neighbourhood of East Firth. (Fear not if you’re unfamiliar with East Firth. I’m sure, at least if you’re near a city, that there is the local equivalent. Think moustached faces hidden below wide brimmed hats and bohemian-hair. Think vintage boots and bow-ties. Think try-hard casual and retro high-horses.)

I’d seen pictures of the cafe online, read the reviews, heard that they did marvellous mac-and-cheese muffins... I was well and truly sold.

 And so forth I went, donning my brand new fedora and an old plaid shirt, hoping against hope that the cool kids would accept me and, through apparel alone, recognise my artistic potential.

 After a brisk twenty-five minute walk, I arrived at Cup & Saucy.

 Dear friends, if it’s quirky you’re after, then look no further...

 Once a Second World War bomb shelter, the renovated trauma hole had been painted in bright yellows and oranges, and the roof boasted a beautiful sky light helping you forget that the place you were ordering your flat white used to act as a refuge for sobbing members of a terrified public. The only screams now came from the espresso machine, whirring the beans into dust. Delightful.

The outdoor seating area was surprisingly beautiful too, considering it was essentially a car park squared off by a multicoloured picket-fence and littered with pot plants. Nonetheless, the ominous clouds looming closer by the second forced me inside. I opted for an table at the rear which, upon closer inspection, was simply a pile of old suitcases bookended by a couple of rustic bar-stools. How charmingly bizarre. I promptly secured my occupation of the table by dumping my laptop bag and jacket atop the suitcase stack before heading to the counter to order my first beverage.

Keeping my distance, I hovered a few metres away from the young lady taking orders.

My eyes scanned the menu. There were the usual suspects; the flat whites, the lattes, the long blacks, the espressos...

But then there were the wild cards. The oddities that helped bring in such wacky clientele. Things like the Sugar-Plum Drip or the Butter-toast Cappu. The Dirty Horchata or the Spiced-Iced. They even had something called an Avolatte, which as far as I could see what simply a latte, served in the hollowed-half-shell of an avocado.

Panic crept in. What was I to do? On the one hand, I could play safe; order a long black and rest assured that I would enjoy my coffee whilst taking the risk of looking like a frumpy bore? On the other hand, I could be bold. Set the precedent that I am really rather edgy. Far edgier than I look.

“That guy ordered the Elephant-Dung mocha!”

“Who? The moody-looking writer fellow? But he looks so unassuming.”

“Perhaps he’s edgier than we think.”

Yes. That’s what they’d say. I’d be mysterious, for sure.

But as is often the case, a feat of such daring would be a double-edged sword. Whilst offering the glory of outlandish notoriety, there was also the gamble of looking foolish. What if the coffee came deconstructed or was served with a ladle? What if they asked how I’d like it, as if I’d ordered it so often I had a preference. My bluff could easily be called and I’d be left looking like a fraud. A clown!

“That chap asked for his Elephant-Dung mocha served with soy milk!”

“Who? That silly man with the cheap fedora?”

“Yes, with the ugly face.”

“Pah! What a philastine!”

“I don’t like him at all!”

Yes...this could all go quite wrong.

In the end, I ordered a oat-milk latte with an extra shot. I felt such an order placed me beyond the humdrum without whipping up the potential for indignity. Though I must admit, my aloofness to the whole situation did falter somewhat when my drink was served to me in what I can only assume was a toddler’s welly. (No, sorry, I didn’t ask.)

I shuffled precariously back to my suitcases and then...there I was. Coffee in boot in hand, laptop open on the “table”, and blank white screen in front of me. All there was left to do was write.

But, write what? I hadn’t really planned anything. Nothing I wanted to continue lay waiting in the wings. Nothing new or exciting was presenting itself. This wasn’t at all how I imagined.

Hmm...

I looked around for inspiration. Nothing came to me.

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, drummed my fingers on the suitcase, sipped at the frothy welly...still nothing.

As I glanced around the cafe hoping something would offer itself to me as a muse, I made momentary eye contact with young woman - around my age - who seemed to be interested in what I was doing. I smiled and quickly looked away, still hunting for something to spark the piles of dry mulch within my mind.

But she kept looking at me. As I stroked my beard, my peripherals caught her blurry head tilted my way. Then more heads started turning my way too. I looked without moving my own, and sure enough, the whole table were now directing their attention my way.  

How is one supposed to think under such circumstances?!

Then things began to escalate.

Apparently, subtlety and decorum were as much a thing here as respect for the past. Much to my horror, the women began pointing at me. I heard them laugh and talk as they gestured towards me.

Maybe they were labelling me a fraud. One of those writers who comes to coffee shops so people can watch them write. Possibly it was the fact that I wasn’t really writing at all. I was mainly stroking my beard and looking puzzled. In desperation to prove myself the real deal, I began tapping furiously at the keys, as though the clouds had parted and heavenly wisdom had just flooded my mind. What I wrote, I don’t quite remember.

I think it was along the lines of, “Write Georgie, write something you good for nothing lazy stinking piece of pie! You call yourself a goddamn writer you disgust me. You disgust everyone. Even your parents. Even the people from whom you were spawn find you repugnant. You should be ashamed, writing nonsensical drivel in an air-raid shelter, drinking coffee from a child’s shoe. What have you become?” You know, something along those lines. Something positive...

Regardless of what I was writing, it didn’t make a difference. The pointing continued. In fact it got worse, and now, people were coming into the cafe and almost immediately pointing at me!

I couldn’t take it. Enough was enough. How could brilliance shine under such scrutiny!?

I slammed my laptop shut, stood up and yelled, “What!?”

The entire cafe went silent. Even the screams of the espresso machine were muted. Everyone looked at me like I was mad. The audacity!

I’d had enough. Avolattes and mac and cheese muffins and drinks served in children’s footwear! And above it all, pointing and laughing. Just because I was different. Or wasn’t different enough!Just because I’d bought my fedora online and my hair was recently washed!

How very dare they!

I picked up my laptop, threw back the last of my wellied-beverage and stormed to the exit, parting the crowd like a bad smell. I was ready to huff and puff my way home, never looking back, when I decided that for once, I was going to say something. For once I was going to call these people out for their rude and insulting ways. It may be too late for me, but I’d be damned if another artist was to be treated with such barbarity.

I stopped in the doorway. I spun of my heel, red with resolve. They were seconds away from the reprimand of their lives and then I saw it.

There at the back, nailed to the wall behind the suitcase table, was the lunch time specials board.

I was in that dream where you’re naked in front of your school assembly.

Absolute dread came rushing from my toes all the way up to the top of my head, painting my face a new shade of scarlet on its way. I braved a glance back to the faces gaping at me, total confusion in a dozen different hues.

A small, pathetic, half laugh came coughing from my lungs. I smiled a guilty smile then, truly mortified, dashed away as quickly as I could without running.

I arrived home 15 minutes later still shaking with humiliation.

Perhaps, quirky cafes weren’t for me after all.

The Quest has only just begun.

Hello imaginative, creative thinkers, I am new to your adventurous writing world. I only started writing this year. Writing with the intention of writing that is. I’ve been one to keep journals and write my thoughts there on a regular. But never sharing with intentions of others to read my words, or intentions of creating with my words, the magic you will create in someone’s head, as they read your words, can they relate? Can you visualize what the words are saying as they are reading? It’s things that have happened in my life’s journey and the things people have said that have brought me here to this new world of letters and words.

School made me think I couldn’t write. Then I listened to my guides and here I am writing. I mostly sit on my couch with my feet propped up on the foot ottom, with pillows all around me, behind me next to me on either side and one on my lap with my laptop sitting on it. I have a huge giant couch, I feel like a little girl when sitting on it. It’s a medium brown couch that is eight in half feet long and four feet deep. and it’s really bouncy. I love doing my squats on my couch they help me by bouncing my booty back up. lol I have a small round table to my right where I sit my pens, highlighters and cup of coffee for my thinking and writing time.

Where do I write? I make a nest for my whittle hiney, lol I wrote hiney and made you say hiney in your mind three times. hahaha hahaha, now you’re smiling. Made ya smile. Mwah XOXO. Sometimes I use my phone and release those words when they are flying at me like hundreds of drones. lol phone and drone, they rhyme. lol, I’m a poet and I know it. hehehehe. I’m being silly, and your probably thinking wtf am I reading.

And now ILMAO TOO HAHAHAHAHA

I write when there are too many words fighting for space in my head. I let them out in the magic world of creative thinking. Now, the question is... will my words come alive? Dancing around out of my head becoming someone else’s reality? How real do you make your words? I live my words every day.

My car is the LOVE MACHI

NE My apartment is the LOVE SHACK

and now I write in my LOVE NEST making

my words come alive. This way I’m always

in Love no matter where I go.and

I didn’t need a man for it.

Goddess Power

Goddess

Love

The End

Come Again XOXO

Athena

09/25/2020