To the boy in the computer lab:

Funny how the two of us come here almost every day,

but I don't know your name

or anything about you

Except that you probably know Excel much better than I do,

you check your email almost as much as I do

and you're a PC

If this was a romantic comedy, there would be a mix up at the printer and somehow I'd end up with your calculus review sheet, and you'd go home with my art history slide list and that would give me an excuse to talk to you.

And naturally, I'd ask you why you are taking calculus, and maybe you're a business major, or maybe you are one of those blessed souls who wants to teach 17 year olds about integrals and derivatives.

And I'd tell you that in high school, I spent the majority of my calculus experience listening to Three Days Grace on a borrowed iPod.

And you'd confess that your guilty pleasure music is Hanson post-MMMBop.

And I'd laugh.

Hard.

And you'd like that.

And the beginning would really be that easy.

*meet me at the printer in 5?*

homemade

I just finished reading A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg. She's the writer of Orangette. She has this magical way of writing like she's had you over for lunch, and after your belly is satisfied like it's never been before, you ask for the recipe, and she, graciously, obliges. And then she tells you about that one time when she made it for so-and-so and suddenly you're off on some tangent that will, inevitably, lead you back to the table.

Since Sunday afternoon, when I started it, this book has been my late night dessert each evening. Not only have I loved curling up in my bed just before I go to sleep, to drool over the recipes and stories Molly tells, I have loved making time in my schedule to read. It has been too long, but it is such a treat.

I loved it. And I may just gain 200 pounds from trying all of the recipes. Although, to Molly's credit, there are enough salads in that book to balance out the butter, chocolate, and whipped cream that fill the rest of the pages.

So thanks, Molly, for confirming that a life centered around the kitchen is perfectly balanced. And that real life fairy tales actually begin with chocolate cake instead of poison apples.

career addendum

Okay, I love writing.

And copywriting.

Really, I do.

The fact that my future career will include sitting in an office full of interesting people and coming up with ideas is so exciting to me. Who else gets to watch random Youtube Videos, surf Twitter, and scribble in a notebook all day and call it work?

I can't wait for the late nights coupled with cartons of orange chicken and fried rice, rushed deadlines, last minute changes, rejections and redos, brain frustration, pages and pages of words reduced to one line, and finally, the success of knowing we nailed it.

I am also realizing how much I love reading, eating and writing about food.

So I'm trying to figure out how I could combine those two passions of mine into something that can support that orange chicken addiction, or the fact that I really, really stink at scrimping on grocery bills.

And this would, naturally, be the part where I tell you that I discovered a fantastic career option and have decided to become a _____. However, the point of writing all this was that I have no idea what sort of combination of copywriting and cooking would actually suit me.

Ideas?

Read This

I realize that dozens of other blogs and websites have posted this already, and I could probably just link to it, but I want to make sure you read it. (I found this from Meg Fee's re-post of it. Sometimes I want to steal Meg's Google Reader because she finds the best bits of writing!)

Because it's absolutely exquisite.

"Date a Girl Who Reads by Rosemarie Urquico

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by God, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes."

Yes oh yes. Rosemarie, you nailed it.

and she's back

She took some time and took off for a new life and when she returned after a month and a half, it was almost like it hadn't happened.

Except that it did.

And she couldn't (wouldn't) deny that because she was different.

The conversations, the culture and the people she met were unforgettable. The experience was like a giant growth spurt and like any growing pains, it hurt to leave.

She didn't feel quite ready to give it up.

She knew the home she was coming back to would be pretty much the same, but she would never be the same girl as before she left.

And because she was different, everything would change.

Spring Haikus

No more blow dryers

Packing away all my coats

Time for sunny days

One week till I leave

New places, scary but fun

I can barely wait

Of course before I

leave I might meet someone great

but they can sit tight

Crunch Time

Okay, guys.

I know you're there, somewhere. (and if you're reading this, yes, I mean YOU).

I'm working on my creative portfolio and I need to include a few things:

a little bit about myself

some brilliant advertising

and (here's where you come in)

a few writing samples, extra creative stuff that doesn't fit anywhere else.

If you've read one of my blog posts or one hundred, now is your chance to tell me what your favorites are.

So pretty please leave me a comment with the title/link to a post of mine that you thought was good enough to reread.

image via

remember to breathe

It's one o clock in the morning and I'm still up.

I feel an interesting mix of energized and overwhelmed.
I know that when my alarm goes off tomorrow morning (at the bright hour of 6), I'll wish I'd have gone to bed a little earlier.

But I was up talking to my best friend, what can you say?

There is still an Art History test to be studied for.
And some work to be done.
And a meal to be planned
And some clever lines of copy to be written.

Sometimes I wish I had a span of 48 hours to not sleep and just get things done. Check off the tasks on my to do list for the next week, so I could actually enjoy the fun things.

But, alas, 5 hour energies and cups of coffee are not really my style.

the kitchen

the darkest chocolate couldn't compete with the brown in her eyes as she wheeled that horn of plenty to the kitchen door.

the kitchen,
where tomatoes marry milk, butter and basil
to make a pot of soup
to share at the dinner table
across from the man with salt and pepper hair.

they talk about the city, the state, the world
theories are touted, and definitions are discovered

an encyclopedia is the entree
that complements the creamy tomato soup.

their conversation continues long after
the soup spoons are cold
and the bread is no more than crumbs
and water droplets have dripped down the sides of the water goblets.

and as she stacks the two bowls in one hand and walks over to rinse them in the sink,
he remembers how she wanted a house with a big kitchen
and why he was okay with that.

for my mom, my dad, and our kitchen.

I'll always be into print

Loving this campaign and the purpose behind it.

Beauty is always better when it's back with good intentions.

photo via adsoftheworld

take it slow

I have had a lot of really wonderful, completely ordinary everyday moments. And those moments have made my life an adventure.

At Her Fingertips--a series of three poems

Eight

She stood with two feet barely
Balancing on the knobby, uneven roots
Of the maple skyscraper in her backyard

Her eyes drew a line
From trunk to tip
Where green fades into blue

So many branches,
And she’d never been very good
At making decisions

He offered his hand to help her
Up to the thick, stable branch just above her fingertips

“I can do it myself,” she countered.

But he said, “Yes you can,
But you don’t need to.”
................................................

Twenty-Eight

She walked down the street
Not watching where she was walking
But who she was walking past.

Their faces told of birthdays and breakups,
Lost and found love,
A soundtrack to the pattern of their steps.

She looked at their eyes,
Curious if anyone wanted to know her story
But no one looked back

Then with a brush of his hand on hers
As he walked by

He whispered her name
And stopped.

................................................
Seventy-Eight

He laced his fingers through hers
As they took a walk
Down the hall with the white tile floors
And that smell that was too clean for the sickness it held.

She imagined they were barefoot on a beach
In Morocco
Forty-five years ago
After wearing an ivory dress and a gardenia in her hair

He tipped the driver of the rusty green cab
That had been their getaway car
And had carried her to the door
Of the quiet cabin that would be their castle

But that night,
When he lifted her onto a bed of clean white sheets
And crawled in beside her

They just slept
And that was enough.


{I wrote these for my creative writing class. I'm deciding that I really like poetry. Writing and reading it.}

Frankly Scarlet

Sometimes when you spend all day on campus, walking from class to class with wet feet in wet shoes and glasses covered in water droplets, it means you stay up way too late to paint your nails a ridiculously named shade of red when you should be sleeping.

And then you curl up into your many many blankets and dream of handwritten letters and pin curls and red lipstick.

just found this little gem:

"This is not a beauty that steals upon your unawares, that flatters and soothes your bruised spirit; this is not a beauty that you can hold in your hand and call your own and put in its place among familiar beauties that you know: it is a beauty that batters you and stuns you and leaves you breathless; there is no calmness in it nor control; it is like a fire that on a sudden consumes you, and you are left shaken and bare and yet by a strange miracle alive."

-Somerset Maugham, from his essay "Mandalay"

"The Ladder": Some Kind of Story, Part Five

She stood with two feet barely

Balancing on the knobby, uneven roots

Of the skyscraper of a maple in her backyard

Her eyes drew a line

From trunk to tip

Where green fades into blue

So many branches,

And she’d never been very good

At making decisions

He offered his hand to help her

Up to the thick, stable arm just above her fingertips

“I can do it myself,” she countered.

But he said, “Yes you can,

But you don’t need to.”

this lovely little poem has been running through my head all day:

I went to a release party for a creative writing journal last night, and I heard the author read this poem.

It was lovely.

And so simple.

And I wanted to share it.

Because I've been thinking about it all day.

And I want to be able to write like this.

So here it is.
Go check it out.

image credit to this little blog.
there are some lovely pictures of food, and delicious-looking recipes. I'll definitely have to try some of them.

Letters to Strangers

I have always loved sending and receiving mail.

Snail mail.

I love papers and cards and stamps and envelopes and wax seals and everything associated with the handwritten word.

For my creative concepts class assignment I was asked to do something I'd never done before.

So I wrote ten little letters.

And found ten addresses, courtesy of the Provo white pages.

For ten strangers.

I wrote a favorite quote on one side, and on the other, some kind of blurb that came out of my head.

A list.

A rambling of scattered thoughts.

A someday inspirational quote.

And maybe these people will hate what I wrote. Or throw it away without even reading it.

But I hope not. I hope that it's one less thing to vent about that day.

I learned that creativity doesn't have to be elaborate, or perfectly organized, or perfect at all. If you wait for it to be perfect, or to have all the right tools, you will never get anything done.

picture taken by my roommate

Some Kind of Story, Part Four

She remembered a time when all it took to make her swoon was an acoustic guitar and letting a boy teach her how to play the first few bars of "Smoke on the Water."

A time before drum sets and the boys that sat behind them.

A time when butterflies were triggered by rainy day love songs and that spunk and confidence that always seems to come with being a musician.

She remembered a time when unpredictable was exciting and returned affection was maybe too much to take.

But now she dreams of bare feet on hardwood floors and mortgage payments and disagreements over paint colors.

A life that, though imperfect, will be perfect for her.

And butterflies that never get old.

I sing the songs of the glory of you

{I am always a little awestruck at beautiful pictures of "old love." love that has never let the butterflies die. love that has tired hands and feet, no longer tired from the searching, but from continuously walking and reaching toward that same love they spent so long searching for. from carrying a load that was too much for one pair of hands. from working together to cultivate that kind of love. the kind that lasts forever.}

..........................................................
"Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of
dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your
feet and hands, Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true soul and body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops,
work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you
be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better
than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago,
I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted
nothing but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to
yourself
...
O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon
yourself all your life, Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,

What you have done returns already in mockeries, (Your thrift, knowledge, prayers,
if they do not return in
mockeries, what is their return?)
...
There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good
is in you, No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits
for you.
...
I sing the songs of the glory of you.
…
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what
you are picks its way."

-Walt Whitman, To You

(full version here)
image via vi.sualize.us

He was never one to sit and watch television.

He would sit cross-legged on top of the tube, look out the window and watch the world outside.

He saw people mulling around, in their various costumes, walking to work, to play, to eat.

Dressed to impress, dressed for success, dressed with distress.

He would imagine their lives and write their stories on the invisible pages of the future. Not the story that everyone knew; the obvious, surface-level travelogue of day-to-day happenings.

But the story that was waiting, wanting to be told. The story they wanted desperately to tell, but did not know where to begin.

Or who would listen.

Because maybe the story didn't have a happy ending.

Or maybe it didn't have an ending at all...

image via deviantart