Tybean Coffee – Monday, 11:18am

I am currently in a creative writing nonfiction class, and so far it has taught me so much. Normally, as a writer, I hate writing classes, which seems backwards if you look at it generally. But there is something about writers, and other artists in general, that cause us to want to hide our craft (I thank the conversation we had with Pa, Caylin, and the rest of our current housemates this spring break for this insight). And so, a writing class means sharing your writing with your classmates and your professor, and that is completely intimidating.

Thankfully, my professor has been teaching us that just because we share, it doesn’t mean we have to be completely confident in what we’ve written. It just means we’re “game” for sharing what we’ve written. And ever since I’ve been adopting this thinking process, I’ve been more accepting of what I’ve written, even though I may cringe because it’s just me spilling my initial thoughts onto paper.

And so, as I’m here taking a full week of spring break off from that class, I want to make sure that I’m still stretching my writing muscle. Technically, my whole blog is nonfiction writing, but as I continue studying and practicing my writing, I understand that there are more things I can do to enhance it.

Since I haven’t posted a ton because of the busyness of school, I’ll be posting some nonfiction writing along with my spring break updates. I may continue this after spring break, if I have time :D.

So here’s a nonfiction piece of just me sitting at Tybean Coffee this morning, taking a break from doing some homework…


I tap my head three times, and squirm on the wooden, sky blue bench. I can’t tell if there are gnats around or if it’s just my imagination, and I start to feel itchy all over.

It’s a beautiful day – the sun is out, yet sunscreen is unnecessary, a cool breeze constantly breathing over everything. This is one of the first times we’ve been able to wear shorts, hoodies donned on. The picnic table shading our legs causes Bria to rise and walk around the small, graveled road that is surrounded by various shops, each building painted in different colors. Some pastel, some bright. Bikes clutter the sides of the road, leaning on wooden fences.

The breeze grows a little stronger, turning the pages of my photo-copied version of the play over and over. I want to reach over to flip them back to the place I left off, but know it will be done in vain – the breeze will continue to breathe. I tap my head again, this time a little more furiously, refusing to actually scratch my head and awaken more itchy nerves on my scalp, and I shift again, this time not because of itchiness, but because my right leg is numb from crossing my legs. I uncross them, and my feet dangle above the wooden floor of the porch. To touch my toes to the ground, or not?

Thirty more minutes and we’ll be hopping onto our bikes and taking the ten minute ride back to my house to drop off all of our scholarly work, only to get back on bikes and pedal toward the fresh market that will only be open until one or two in the afternoon. The sunshine promises the rest of the day to be adventurous with our time at the market, and our eventual trek to the beach for the rest of the day.

Honestly, I look forward to being on the beach, the breeze probably exhaling stronger onto the waves, sweeping the sand into the air, and inhibiting the gnats – whether real or imaginary – from bothering me and any other beach bums.


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