I wrote this last August while sitting up in bed, avoiding sleep. I’m not a great sleeper. I’m usually watching TV, scrolling mindlessly on my phone, occasionally reading. I should read in bed more.
But this night, I spent at least part of my dawdling bedtime hours writing this poem. If I’m being completely honest, I’m still trying to understand everything that it means to me. I tend to write in fits and starts. I don’t have a regular writing schedule. Wish that I did, of course. But I’m too distracted and scatterbrained.
I’ve mostly made my peace with the fact that writing may never be my profession. I fail at it more often than not. And then I wonder if it’s really what I need. I’m still trying to work that out. I see myself largely as a novice, even after 33 years.
Even though it feels like there is truth in this poem, I can’t say whether it’s good or bad. I don’t know that I should really have an opinion on it, to be honest. I wrote it the only way I knew how. So, it is what it is. That kind of thing.
Although it’s taken me over half a year to share it, and although I haven’t written much recently, writing this poem made me hear my voice in a new way. I used to avoid writing poetry because my brain couldn’t seem to translate my feelings and experiences in a satisfactory way. It was like repeatedly mismatching the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.
But now, I think that poetry may be the most accessible way for me to express myself creatively in my 30s. It’s perfect for those brief, quiet moments in my mind I want to grab hold of and preserve in my memory. It also gives me a digestible way to make sense of my thoughts and emotions.
Hopefully I’ll make a better practice of this in the future.
By the look of it, my reads so far for 2024 seem to be a bit random. I’m never happy reading strictly in one genre. I’m a very mood-based reader, so I could be feeling spine-tingling suburban thriller one week and quirky, small-town romance the next. When I was choosing my first book of the year, I had just gotten my first tattoo: a tipped-over wine glass on my forearm beneath my wrist. I got it with a couple of my friends and it made me eager to get my next tattoo, the tattoo I always thought would be my first if I ever worked up the nerve to do it. In my 20s, after reading The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway for the first time, I got the idea to get my favorite line from the book tattooed somewhere on my person. Thinking about this made me reminiscent for the story, and that is how I found myself revisiting the book in early January.
But once I got through it, I felt so spent by Hemingway’s prose. I love his writing, though rereading TSAR in my 30s was a different experience than reading it in my 20s. Where I empathized with Jake and Brett during my first read, I found them completely insufferable during my second. It’s absolutely fair to say that I read this book through rose-colored glasses in my 20s. I romanticized their lives to a degree that I think I found them somewhat enviable. However, reading this book in my 30s revealed just how sad and miserable everyone felt and why they behaved so badly as a result. It bummed me out much more than I anticipated. When I finally finished reading it again, I felt a huge weight off my shoulders. It’s not a long book, but between Hemingway’s brusque and stoic writing style and the characters’ insurmountable dramas, it is an emotionally heavy read. I definitely felt like I’d earned that last line by the time I read it.
Given the emotional toll from reading TSAR, I needed something a little fluffier to read next. I wanted a happy ending. That was how I found myself in the mood for a romantic story, and after some hemming and hawing in front of my bookshelf, I finally landed on Yours Truly by Abby Jimenez. And boy was I rewarded by the literary gods for sticking it out with Hemingway, because AJ had me HOOKED. Certainly, these characters had their own drama. But where Hemingway’s writing style was more than a bit morose, AJ’s was endearing and relatable. She tugged at my heartstrings, sure, but she gave me characters I could root for. I think part of the problem going into the TSAR was that I had read it before, I knew what I was going to get, and I sadly did not feel the same magic rereading this book as I have in rereading other past favorites. I don’t think it’s because the book isn’t good. I think TSAR is a magnificent book. I’ve just changed. Which is why I found myself engrossed in all the typical romance tropes that AJ served me on her little book platter. Did Briana and Jacob’s drama give me anxiety? Yes. Did their lack of communication frustrate me? Yes. Was there a heartwarmingly satisfying payoff in the end? Yes. I LOVED the premise of them hiding letters for each other at work, of a mild enemies to lovers trope, and after such a rough start to the 2020s, I’ve just become a person who needs the happy ending, damn it. I used to not care about this so much. I used to relish when books ended a little untidy. And, okay, I still do. I think it just hits me differently because I’ve been through some shit. We all have.
Which is why I up and decided to return to more literary fare and read a little gem of a book called Glaciers by Alexis M. Smith next. The story spans one day and a lifetime of emotions. Because reading romance can sometimes feel like eating candy or ice cream or slightly warmed, ooey-gooey cookie dough. It’s so, so good, but then you need to cut it with something savory. I don’t know much about Ms. Smith. Unlike with Hemingway or Abby Jimenez, hers isn’t a name I see zipping around the internet very much in my bookish web searches. I believe I found this book in a Barnes & Noble newsletter. Intrigued by the cover, I clicked through to their website and started perusing the product page. What made me add-to-cart and then actually pay for it was the utter lack of description. They gave me just enough to pique my curiosity. I didn’t know what to expect, but I flipped the final page with a feeling of kinship. I felt like I was reading about a dear friend or an ideal version of myself from an alternate universe. It was a stoic but touching read with reflective metaphors and nostalgic imagery.
It put me in just the right mood to read my friend, Ashley Logan’s, new collection of poetry, The World Goes Down Slow. For who constructs metaphor and imagery quite like a poet? You do not have to know her personally to feel gut struck by her writing, as I did. What I loved about this book was how indulgent she was in her poems—indulging her thoughts and feelings and experiences in ways that are often hard to allow. I felt that was a major point of the collection overall: taking ownership. I think knowing Ashley and being a part of her life helps me appreciate these things and see the tapestry of her story with a unique perspective, but these are all elements that are deeply ingrained in her poems. Like I said before, you don’t need to know her personally to feel the reverence of her experiences. I could feel the tension of her writing pushing up against her fears, trekking forward regardless.
That may be what drew me to The Quarry Girls by Jess Lourey. By all rights, a story about girls who must strangle their fears lest their fears strangle them. I wrote about this book a few weeks ago. It is a stark reminder to always be on your guard. I know that sounds dramatic or aggressive or paranoid. Perhaps it is all these things. But stranger things have happened than the fictional events that take place in this novel set in 1970s Minnesota. You do not have to be surrounded by serial killers to feel the quiet angst of danger. This is a story of innocence lost, yes, but this is also a story of perseverance and following your truth. Unfortunately, that sometimes sees us in situations we don’t want to be in, but have to find our way through regardless or risk not finding our way at all. It’s always a risk, though, isn’t it? That’s just life. When I read stories like this or listen to especially heinous episodes of a true crime podcast, I’m reminded that, despite what I want to believe about there being a reason for everything that happens, sometimes life is just a bitch. A random, nonsensical bitch.
And that’s why we read romance, folks. And how I decided my last read of the winter season would be Practice Makes Perfect by Sarah Adams. An adorable small-town romance about a sassy virgin whose matchmaking pop star best friend introduces her bodyguard as a solution to said friend’s dating woes. They have AHmazing chemistry, but of course spend an absurd amount of time fighting it and pretending like it doesn’t exist. Oh, the tension! Two people who are attracted to each other but refuse to be together?? My favorite trope! It’ll make you laugh, it’ll make your stomach do queasy somersaults, and if you’ve turned into a softie in your old age like me, it may even make you cry for no good reason. It was the perfect segue to spring.
I’m not 100% sure what I’m going to read next, though. I do have a copy of Meredith, Alone by Claire Alexander currently sitting on my nightstand, but I’m not fully committed to it yet. I’m taking a little break to gauge what piques my interest. I see myself reading more romance, or romance-adjacent, books during the warmer months. Now that I’m getting back into a better reading routine, my brain is chasing that dopamine high that comes from gratifying storylines, which romance is really good for, you know? So we’ll see. I’d also like to start Wolf Hall at some point this year, too, which I’m sure is a bloodbath and not at all romantic. Time will tell.
As always, if I haven’t mentioned it before, I use Bookshop.org affiliate links when linking to the books I write about in my posts. So go forth, and support indie bookstores!
A few weekends ago, I visited one of my favorite restaurants, Juniper, for the first time since before the pandemic.
For about an hour, it felt like old times. I used to go there almost every weekend. When I said I wished they did their brunch every Sunday like they used to, my dad disagreed. He said he felt their current, randomly selected schedule, was better—for both his belly and his wallet. (He went back to the buffet for a second plate, after all.) I thought that was a healthy way to look at things, and it reminded me how much has changed in the last few years.
Even though I’ve been working remotely full-time since 2020, adjusting to work-from-home life has been difficult. As recently as this year, I still felt like I was struggling to adapt. I’ve ping-ponged back and forth between my preference for working from home and at times desperately missing my office, the routine I had before the world broke down. I know that things will probably never be the same for me as they were then, but this has proven harder to accept than I thought.
A month ago, I even tried to go back into the office on a hybrid schedule. Luckily, my manager doesn’t care one way or another, because I totally failed at this endeavor. I thought I could recapture some of my old routine: socializing with officemates, taking lunchtime strolls down Main Street, hitting up the gym after hours. But none of these things felt the same, and by the third day, I couldn’t even make it until 5:00. I took a late lunch and hopped in my car to finish my work day in the comfort of my own home.
Times have changed, and when I couldn’t work up the motivation to go back into the office again, that seemed to solidify things for me. Working from home can be its own kind of struggle, but I seem to be an unwavering convert in the lifestyle. Not only is it more convenient, but it saves on gas and therefore saves me money. I’m also a horrible sleeper and unapologetic night owl, so not having to worry about waking up early is a considerable weight off my shoulders. I cannot tell you the migraines I used to get from lack of sleep back in pre-pandemic times. The horrible fluorescent office lighting didn’t help, either.
I now work in a home office with one lamp and two windows, which provide most of my lighting. I am a HUGE fan of natural lighting. It’s so strange the difference this can make in my mood, but also it’s not surprising. I used to work in a cubicle with absolutely no view under harsh lights. Now, I can look out the window and watch cars drive by, birds flit about in the yard, people walking their dogs or riding their bikes or going on runs. It’s nice getting to see other people living their lives, doing these mundane daily activities. It reminds me a bit of when I was a drive-thru teller at a bank during and after college. I loved it—the sound of the highway reminded me of the ocean. It was much less interesting having to stare into a bland lobby all day.
While I continue to struggle adapting to life working from home, I often imagine finding my way with the remote lifestyle in the future. I suppose in the grand scheme of it, I’ve only worked from home for a few years. Compared to, like, the rest of my life, that really hasn’t been a long time. Maybe one day I’ll find myself in a hybrid or fully onsite job again, but progress isn’t linear, and I’m not sure how much I’d thrive back in an office every day anyhow.
There are good days and bad days when it comes to working remotely, just as there were good days and bad days when working in an office full-time. Visiting Juniper again reminded me that while some things may stand still, time doesn’t. Life happens, circumstances change. Places like Juniper act as a totem to the before-times, but even their operations have had to adapt. Perhaps I’ve impaired myself in resisting for so long, in trying to hold on to the past. Going forward, I’d like to change that, as best I can anyway. I know it won’t be easy, but one day—whether that’s working from home or back in an office—I hope to curate the kind of life that doesn’t only live in my head.
Last week, I started reading The Quarry Girls by Jess Lourey. I bought this book after Bree, on the sadly abandoned podcast, Among the Dirt and Trees, mentioned it in one of her episodes. (Bree, if you read this, I would love more of the podcast!)
Anywho.
While I am enjoying the story, I somehow stepped into a bit of a reading slump this past week. I don’t know how this happened, because I was hitting a pretty good stride where I was reading a lot more and a lot faster than I had been.
Alas.
Regardless of my recent irregular reading patterns, I’m enjoying this book for a few different reasons.
First of all, there is a young adult element. I don’t think it’s meant to be a young adult book as it’s labeled a thriller on the cover, but the main protagonist is a teenaged girl living in 1970s Minnesota during a time when serial killers seemed to run rampant. Lourey writes in her author’s note that this period was a precarious time for the teenaged experience as she spent part of her formative years in Saint Cloud where three killers were active during her time there. She said the book is in part due to “[making] sense of my childhood, to help me understand the fear in my community and in my home.”
Which brings me to the next aspect of this book that I appreciate: using the backdrop of one’s childhood to frame a fictional story and to, by extension, try to make sense of what we could not in the past. Unlike Lourey, I did not grow up in an area with three serial killers on the loose. My first experience with violent murder came through media reports of JonBenét Ramsey’s death. I know, I know. Everyone talks about this one being their entryway to true crime. But I was six at the time, the same age she had been, and my young, tender brain tried very hard to grapple with what news anchors were saying happened to her and how something like that could happen to me—a little white blonde girl. She was in pageants; I was in dance. You can see how I would relate, however superficially.
I began to perceive my life experience through the grainy, faded lens of mystery. I became fascinated with what went on in the dark, behind closed doors. That sounds sick, doesn’t it? I didn’t, and don’t, find it pleasurable, but I did, and do, find it curious—how people can do such unhappy things to each other, how some people do actually take pleasure in it. What makes the mind tip in that direction? And how frustrating the answer can be sometimes—how sometimes people are just evil, but sometimes people simply make bad choices.
So I am often drawn to books like this because they reflect my own experiences. I do not live, and never have lived, a Hallmark movie kind of existence. To me, only really lucky, fortunate people grow up without witnessing the violent undertones of daily life, and even then I’m not sure anyone ever escapes it. Innocence always has its time in the sun, but sooner or later it gets burned. Loss of innocence is a thematic right of passage in our society because it is so prevalent in our personal histories. At a certain stage, it becomes harder and harder to negate the darker aspects of life.
Our pasts are often riddled with little, if not significant, traumas. While I currently live a fairly laidback, agreeable lifestyle it doesn’t mean I forget those disquieting instances. Rather, the way I live now is in response to them. Perhaps my life is one big cop-out, but I like to think of it a little more gently. Because some people wake up and actually choose violence.
I know, I know. It is no longer November. Needless to say, I am very behind keeping this blog up-to-date. I do have a couple more posts I’d like to write before the end of the year. For now, here are some photos I took from my trip to Crescent Beach in November. I love the beach in the fall. The lighting is much softer than in the spring and summer; the color palette more serene. Not to mention, I don’t have to wear a bathing suit, which takes off a lot of pressure and also a considerable amount of discomfort. Note to self: find better bathing suits in 2024. Happy Friday, all.
Yesterday, I went to Columbia with some friends to peruse a new bookstore in Five Points. We stopped at The Gourmet Shop for lunch first, which was nice because I hadn’t been there since well before the pandemic. I ordered their pepper jelly and ham on a croissant with a side of the tomato basil pasta salad while sipping on the blueberry lavender spritzer. I couldn’t finish all of my food and had to take about half of it home with me, but was reminded that they are quite a gem in the area for sandwiches and cocktails.
Afterward, we walked over to All Good Books to browse their collection. AGB opened earlier this year in March, so I was thrilled to finally see the place and it didn’t disappoint. I managed to talk myself down to two books: Bright Dead Things by Ada Limón and Autumn by Ali Smith. But, mind you, I was walking around with, like, four or five books for a large portion of the time before keeping one in my pile and replacing the others while snagging a completely different book at the last minute. As per usual. It seems like I know what I want until I’m down to the wire and decisions have to be made, then there’s no telling what will happen.
Ultimately, I’m happy with my purchases. I’ve read a collection of Ada Limón’s poetry before, Sharks in the Rivers, long before she was poet laureate and loved her writing voice. But I had yet to actually own any of her books, so this seemed like the perfect opportunity to make it official. Then I turned around at some point and saw Ali Smith’s seasonal quartet lined up expectantly, as though they were just waiting for me to finally notice them. As I have had that series on my TBR list for some years, I decided to get the first book in the series to start me off. (Which just reminds me that I still want to finish another series, one by Rachel Cusk—of Outline notoriety—but I didn’t spot any of her books. Which doesn’t mean they weren’t there, just that my eyes didn’t happen upon them.)
If you’re ever in the area or you’re a local who hasn’t visited yet, then I highly recommend adding All Good Books to your travel queue. They are a vital literary locale that I hope to visit for many, many years to come!
I took an extra long weekend for Labor Day and rode up to the mountains with my cousin to visit some of our friends. There are two places of note I did make a point to photograph that I wanted to write about. Sadly, we visited an adorable little bookstore that I neglected to record, but I’ll at least link to their website for future reference.
Silver Fork Winery
A few of us were dumped at Silver Fork Winery for a few hours Saturday afternoon where we heartily imbibed in chilled wine while listening to a live band, shamelessly people-watched, and partook in cheery conversation. We each had our own glass in the first round, but then bought bottles of the Chardonnay Reserve and Rosé to share. We all loved the Chardonnay Reserve, but agreed that the Rosé tasted slightly watered down. But it was a cute little spot and I would 100% go there again. As I am a sucker for a vineyard with a striking view. And what is more striking than mountaintops, I ask.
Hawksbill Mountain
Sunday evening, we went on a sunset hike up Hawksbill Mountain. I can honestly say that was my first real hike. We hiked a couple of smaller, less strenuous trails earlier in the day, but Hawksbill was by far the most intense. We had to stop a handful of times to catch our breath, but when we made it to the top of the mountain it was definitely worth the effort, as evidenced by my pictures. A can of beer never tasted so good! But, also, the Sycamore Pumpkin Blond Ale, or whatever its proper name is, was just a really good beer, coming from an oenophile. I would drink it again, even off-mountain. Also, I am really proud of myself for being a little adventure-seeker this summer. This was an amazing experience for a standoffish, introverted homebody. She is pleased. ☺️
P.S. — The Bookstore
After lunch on Saturday, we walked across the street to Adventure Bound Books. I’m so sad I didn’t even think about getting a picture of the storefront, which I normally like to make a point of when I visit a new bookstore. I guess I’ll just have to stop by there again! I can, however, share a picture of my loot. Observe.
This is, of course, less than what I’d accumulated in my arms while browsing their inventory. Some tough decisions were made, but I was happy with my final purchase. There is one book I almost bought that I put back on the shelf and now I wish I’d just gotten it anyway. Although, I am really pushing it with available real estate on my bookshelves right now, which is none at the moment. Even my Stephen King had to go on top of a row books rather than IN the row of books. But more on that later.
Yesterday, my mom and I drove to Mount Pleasant for the kayak tour at Shem Creek. Other than maybe at camp a time or two when I was growing up, this was my first time kayaking that I can actually remember. Certainly, my first time kayaking as an adult.
It was a little touch and go when they pushed me backward into the water. First, I couldn’t see where I was going, then I had to figure out how to turn myself around so I could start paddling forward—paddling backward seemed too difficult at first—and as I was trying to accomplish that task I also had to get comfortable with my balance in the kayak. It felt much easier to tip over than I had anticipated.
Eventually, though, I managed to turn myself around. There was a lot of boating activity between the docks, of course, so paddling through the waves was a little nerve-wracking, but once we got out into the open water it was a little easier to handle, and I was able to experiment with my paddle some to figure out which maneuvers accomplished which tasks, like slowing down or coming to a full stop, pivoting the kayak, gaining speed, coasting, etc. Once I got the hang of it, I felt like a natural. I definitely want to go again, but maybe not when it’s so hot! I felt like a boiled shrimp by the end of the tour, and I walked away with some sunburn despite wearing sunscreen.
All in all, it was a fun day. I enjoyed doing something outdoors in nature, which as a homebody is totally out of my comfort zone, so I’m glad I pushed myself out of my bubble. I don’t have a naturally adventurous spirit, but I always love getting to experience that energy. I definitely want more of that in my life going forward.
Here’s the thing. I want to get back to that place in my creative life when I created because it was fun and not because I was trying to be somebody.
I want to write again because it gives me solace, allows me to express myself in ways I could not otherwise convey, and because I simply enjoy creating and storytelling.
When I was a child, I didn’t ask myself how profitable something would be before I put it down on paper. When I take a picture of something, I don’t think about how I can profit from it before I put it out into the world. I create it because I enjoy the process; I share it because it’s made me happy.
I’m so tired of thinking in terms of monetization. I understand that artists also need to be business-minded, but what happens when that keeps you from creating? What happens when creativity starts to feel less valuable because you’re not sure if it’s profitable?
I’ve been published before, and that honestly didn’t make me feel like any more or less of a writer in the end. Social media communities have shared my photography on multiple occasions, even though I just use my iPhone. I used to hate when people said writing was just a hobby. It always felt like they were devaluing what it meant to me, but I allowed their interpretation to cloud my understanding of how these creative pursuits informed my life.
It really doesn’t matter what other people think of you or your creative pursuits; it only matters what it means to you. I have a day job. I can make money and support myself this way. I don’t feel the same urgency to be a professional artist (though, it’s nice to daydream about) as I did during my post-college years. Maybe these things are just hobbies. That doesn’t make them any less important. In fact, I’d argue that makes them more important—vital, even—to our daily survival.
One of my favorite poets is a man named Dana Gioia, who also received his MBA from Stanford and worked as a corporate businessman. Some artists would say they could not create if they didn’t have a day job to balance out their creative life. I’ve actually resisted this idea myself in the past, thinking that the holy grail of creative living and working as an artist was to be able to do it full-time. But then I think about how accomplished I feel when I do get in some writing on a workday. It may be a half hour in the evening and only a few hundred words, but it’s something, it’s progress. At the end of the day, I have to ask myself if I really need it to be more than that.
Lauren Michelle Brock 