letters towards the outside

Dear Juniper Bush, growing in glory with garden spiders below my bedroom window, crawling with brown leaves fallen from overhanging trees, watered with the deep baths of beer/whiskey/humans, this letter is for you:

...

I was tracking and writing five minutes ago, three paragraphs deep in the best prose in THE WORLD, when I clicked the wrong button and it all disappeared.

Silence.

And begin again:

So.

Today (this very day) I am now (officially) an intern at a local alternative paper. A reporter there cautioned me to be "snarky" and looked me in the eyes, curious how I'd take the word. I probably grimaced/smiled in that uncomfortable way my family has, but inside I said: "Snarky? I was using that word before you were born!" Which would have been unnecessarily cocky and also a lie.

But oh the joy joy joy in my heart heart heart. Writing, I do it alone mostly and it's a lonely activity suitable for lonely whiskey drinking, lonely water drinking, lonely walks, lonely observations in coffee shops, and lonely trudges back home to bed. All this alone-ness is great, wonderful!, even more so if you are being published. Because as beautiful as it is to wallow in alone-ness all the time, it's nice that some ears are cocked in your direction and some eyes tracking ink laid down by your own right hand. It compels you not to screw things up--like, for example, your life, vision and perhaps soul.

Also it's nice.

Once stories get going, I'll post links up here.

Meanwhile, the city is still clinging to summer between the hours of 1 and 4 p.m., but otherwise it's cold and bugs and pretty plants are dying every day. All is well. I bicycle around and mess up my hair and ruin my shoes walking through parks. I'm living only a few blocks away from one of my favorite coffee shops. This is proving to be very bad for my wallet. If I get into art classes next week, it will be easier to stick to my strict budget and stay away from dens of coffee sin. I've managed to write every day, one of my goals. Hopefully good will come of it. We'll see.

Goodbye, dear Juniper Bush. May you flourish and slowly take over the sidewalk, the fence, and our hearts.