maybe i'll even list you all as editors. :)

nate hulne is graciously creating a new coffee shop website for me. i'm working on some content for the pages, and i just took all of two minutes to write up a history of the business. i know that it needs some work (which is why i'm not sending it to him yet), and i'd love to get some feedback. i know so far we've mostly just been patting each other on the back and giving words of encouragement (which, p.s., has been good for my writing ego), but i'm actually asking for some critisism on this one. and it won't even hurt my feelings because i haven't even read through what i just wrote. (see how that means i can take less offense? because it all makes sense in my head!) so have at it....


Once upon a time, a girl in her late teens semi-flippantly said she would one day like to own a coffee shop. But then she went on to college, got her four year degree in English, and landed a fabulous part-time job at a library. After a few months, she began to feel a burning desire to do something more with her life. The idea of a coffee shop seemed the perfect amount of ambitious and fun. With the support of her husband, family, and friends, she decided to move forth with the plan.

The Altoona Pub was purchased, and months of renovation began. Coffee equipment was bought, paint was painted, and the girl realized she better quickly learn a thing or two about espresso. (Her palette had long ago been trained to taste a good drink, but she didn’t actually know how to MAKE one!) She happened upon Carl at The Coffee Barn (ß a link here would be fabulous!), ordered some flavoring, decided on a name (thanks to her big brother, Brad), and soon after the doors opened. (Well, some of the more boring details have been left out, but you get the picture.) Ever since that wonderful day in June of 2004, Being There Coffee House has been making Altoona-ites and anyone else who graces it’s door very, very satisfied coffee drinkers.

Keys

On my first visit to New Orleans, I found a key. Wandering the French Quarter, it's easy to believe in adventure and hard to believe in coincidence. The stately homes belie history, power, and influence, while the seedier taverns and alleys remind passersby of darker elements of society. An unknown key represents drama, mystery, intrigue, all heightened by its discovery in a troubled historic city. Picking up the key, I expected to be swept into a world of locked doors concealing dark family secrets, fantastic wealth, and troubled romance.

Of course, only in fiction will a key lying on the ground in a distant city ever open anything. Discoveries might feel like opportunity, even fate, but the universe never delivered me a grand plantation mansion with a shadowy back room that remained locked until my arrival with a mysterious key. (Because what was I doing there? How, exactly, would my slide into this world begin?)

Keys are one of the most symbolic objects in literature - they represent knowledge (or more often, the phallus). A key never shows up by mistake in a story. I chose to believe that life would imitate art, but out here in daily Midwestern life, it seems a key is just a key.

i'm a few prompts behind.

i told krystal that i was going to preface some of what i write with something like this, and it's more for my benefit than yours. so just fyi, i've put little thought and no editing into this piece, AND i'm only sharing it because i feel like i need to force myself to not be so uptight about sharing my writing. :) and after that uplifting intro, here you go....



i am the black cord stilly slithering in a bed of green blades.
without me
this show is nothing but an acoustic whisper
in a sea of drunken unappreciatives.
i am the aorta to the heart of the city of speakers.
i am largely unnoticed and ignored.
i'm only touched by the roadies
who ignore my scuffs and stickiness as they unwind me and
leave me to inconspiculously do my job.
my secret power is masked in rubbery darkness.
i am a musical super hero.

Titles get in the way.

It is 1:02 am, and I wrote this about five minutes ago :D

I saw the psychic
she was large
in 80s style dress
prancing around the room
loving the small town feel
a mistress on a mission
to see the future
and give a boost, to us
the iowa day dreamer star gazing thunderstorm loving youth
her thunder roared the loudest
and shook the hills of barstool laughter
as she looked at me and laughed
saying "honey, honey
repeat after me"

New prompts on Kara's request :)

1. Rescue a stray key from that junk drawer in the kitchen. Put it next to your typewriter (what year are we in again? ha). Try to remember or imagine what this key once unlocked. Start writing.


2. Finish the following sentence in the voice of someone ten years younger or ten years older than you:

The only thing I have ever wanted was ________________________.

new prompt?

i have a burning desire to write, but i have no direction. (i tried krystal's prompt, but unless someone really wants to read crappy, sad attempts at poetry, i've got nothin' to share.) alison or breona? do you have anything inspiring and wonderful??

I am going to suck it up and post one. Haha.

I am earthy warm brown tones torn and worn from a
tree, and I can tell you from experience that global
warming does not exist.

I am uneven, I don't meet in the middle medium
where all doors form a nice, even line

I am of so little use now
I do not know why I am still allowed to live
but do any of us?
I sit idle, unusable
dreams of leading to somewhere
people want to be haunt me
as I sleep and day dream
in the hot summer sun
I know the end of my life is near
the brittle, metal hinges are falling apart
and I'll collapse
my purpose fully served

I just wrote it out how it looks in my journal. I bet you can guess which prompt I chose :D

Just try to find a thesis statement. I dare you.

Until my sophomore year of high school, I always thought that I was a decent writer. I'd been told in elementary school and junior high, by various teachers and relatives, that it was something that I was good at. But then AP Lit came along, and Mr. Pitkin blew my whole "good writer" theory right out of the water. I remember being ridiculously excited about taking this class (I actually enjoyed completing the summer homework assignments), but once it started I quickly realized that in Mr. Pitkin's eyes, I was not the stellar writer that I had always assumed myself to be. Mr. Pitkin taught me that analytical writing must have five paragraphs: an introduction with a thesis statement, three paragraphs following with three separate points backing up said thesis, and a conclusion which summarizes the paper and then restates the thesis statement. I had never been taught writing in such a systematic way, and unfortunately my brain didn't respond well to the concept of formula writing. But I've never been one to break rules or (God forbid) deviate from what a teacher says is the correct way to do something. So I spewed out cookie cutter paper after cookie cutter paper, receiving mostly B's and the occasional A-, for an entire, heartbreaking year. And after every writing conference with Mr. Pitkin I would leave feeling more and more concerned about my ability as a writer.

But thank God for college. I took what seemed like every literature and writing course available over a four year period, and I was blessed to be taught by professors like Michael Harris, who praised nearly everything I turned in to be graded. Or Kimberly Koza, who encouraged me to submit one of my personal essays to a contest (I received second place, a cash prize, and the honor of being published in the campus literary magazine). Or Walter Cannon, who quite possibly hated me for some unknown reason, but there was a level of mutual respect, and he awarded me with A's for the Shakespeare papers that I slaved many a sleep-deprived night over. Not one of my college papers followed Mr. Pitkin's five paragraph, thesis statement, always-make-an-outline-first rule.

At best, I'm above average writer. My writing abilities lie somewhere between the praise of my mother (who, like every parent, thinks her child is the best at everything) and the critique of Mr. Pitkin. And in the same respect, Mr. Pitkin wasn't a horrible teacher. He had his redeeming and endearing qualities, and I have some good memories from AP Lit. Like the time Mr. Pitkin tripped on the overhead cord while dancing along to Monday, Monday by the Mama's and the Papa's. Or the day that Courtney McClimon and I found a stash of Kurt Vonnegut books in the metal cabinet in the back of the room, and thus began my love affair with Breakfast of Champions. Mr. Pitken wasn't a bad man, and it's not completely fair to blame him for my character flaw of critique-induced low self confidence. But I do have to admit that I take great satisfaction in knowing that he would absolutely cringe to read a piece (of three-paragraph) writing that ends like this.

here's what I came up with...

For the first prompt, see if you can guess which rule I am breaking...

Deer Diarie:
Evr snc Bennny dyed Iy spel thengs rong. Eye wint too de suppermarkit wit ahy lest: molk, bred, grap jous, Ahreeoh cookys, end terkie brestz. Iye thot et wood ees mye pane, butt eye cryed whin tey wer oute ov deh Ahreeoohz. Sew ey crid mi waey hom nd feel a slip reeding mey dictionary.

Haha.. this is fun to read aloud. It really makes you think of the construction of spelling and correctness... at least it did for me. :)

For the second prompt, I did this...

The Lighted Bridge

I am the lighted bridge in the photo on my blog.

I stretch naked across the black skyline, resting my head on grey earth, extending my pointed toes across the cobblestone path.

I am decorated, painted, lit up as the night creeps onto me.

Billions of bulbs like stars adorn my body outline each curve, bump, expose my flesh in the white light.

I am awakened by the splash of black waters from below, encasing my skin, seeping into my bones, slipping from an erect hand.

My body is traveled, I am exposed, cut into, broken to pieces.

I am the lighted bridge you walk across to get to the coffee shop, the laundry mat, the office.

I am the lighted bridge you kick at, trip on, spit your gum onto.

I am the lighted bridge you take.

Prompt 1: Breaking a Rule (or at least hypothesizing about it)

English has too many words already. But given the amount of time people spend with their heads tilted, muttering "what's the word I'm looking for?", perhaps our language could use a few more words.

Here are some situations that create in me such specific emotions, I feel they should get their own words.

-A bunch of people are hanging out around a computer, watching YouTube videos one after the other as people blurt out suggestions. You are convinced your video is the funniest, even if everyone laughs harder at poorly animated stick figure violence.

-You and a stranger are sitting next to each other in the library, quietly reading in the periodicals section. A cranky toddler stomps by, screaming, and tears a few magazines off the shelves. A harried mother follows, throws the magazines back in the wrong places, and yells almost as loudly as the toddler. You and the stranger exchange an eye-roll.

-You're somewhere loud and can't really understand the person you're chatting with, so you're just nodding a lot. They're getting more and more animated about something, and you realize you have no idea what they're talking about. You start looking for an easy exit from the conversation before they ask you a question that will betray your poor listening skills.

-The NCAA bracket you filled out based on color preference and midwestern solidarity wins against brackets filled out by the basketball fans in your office. (A college basketball fan would have to use the same word, but with "un" or "dis" in front of it.)

Anyone else have situations that generate strong and specific, but unnamed, feelings?

Prompt Numero 2

Hey all- I am pretty excited b/c I think I figured this out... :)

I have our second prompt.
This prompt is kind of artistic;I was planning on picking a photo for it, but since Breona has a few inspiring pics up on the blog, I figured we would use those, or you can pick any other photo you want. So:
Pick a piece of art, photo, picture, sculpture, whateve and write a poem, short story, personal essay, whateve as if you were something in the photo. Your first line can be "I am the (object or person or whateve here) in (painting's name here)." So for example I could look at the picture at the top of our blog and say, "I am the lighted bridge in the photo on my blog." Get it? Sounds like fun, huh? YEAH! :) Here is a poem I wrote in this form last year.... Enjoy!

Mother Whose Children are Like Fishes
after Yamilys Brito

I am the blue beaded necklace in the ‘Yemaya’.

I lie on silken skin, embrace the goddess’s neck, tangle in her hair, and reach for the eye in her navel.

I wonder at the curve of her breast, its tip straining towards the flaming rocket above.

I wish for the dark waters below, for the evil one above to snatch me from the indents I have made in damp hot skin.

I long to be unstrung, my string to be snapped apart, for my broken beads to wander in the curves of the divine, to ride the waterfall at her side and be scattered across the sea.

I wonder at colors. Of blue, of being blue. Of black that should be lemon, chocolate, aqua, forest. Of white that should run blood red.

I have a secret. It is not the speared side, the evil sea creature, the blazing torch, or the falling stars that take the woman.

I have a secret wish, a longing to move from the valley where I lay. For the woman to reach the eye of her navel to the heavens, so that I may slide towards her pacified face.

I will grab hold of the city behind her as she pulls towards the constellations.

I will press into her neck and take her.

Prompts:

I know there were three writing prompts for the week, but I only wrote down the one I planned on actually doing. Anyone have the other two written down?

The one I have is summed up as break a rule, grammatically.