Page 1 of Fibre and Ink

Chapter One

Aster

Monday, August 3rd

My poetry will change the world. I believe that. I do.

But (and this is a big, annoying but and not a cute round butt like mine) I also know that for people to actually read my poetry, and therefore be changed by it, I need to work hard. I need to write poetry and edit it and maybe write essays and novels as well, and edit those and get them out into the world so people can read them and be changed by them.

And to do that I have to sit down and actually write. There’s an interview with Leonard Cohen (one of my heroes) where he described his process. He says it takes him a long time to get to the good stuff. He had to work at it. He said something along the lines of, “You have to write the garbage first, to get to the good stuff after.”

Well, I’ve graduated college. I wrote a lot of garbage there, and some really good stuff too.

But now? I’m free in the world, I have time on my hands and I have garbage to write.

Only one problem.

Okay, two.

The first problem is what do I write?

The second problem is where do I write?

I had elaborate daydreams of sitting at the kitchen table in my family’s small apartment and gazing out into the bright morning view of Foggy Basin’s Main Street, the muse sweeping in from above and possessing me to write elaborate and beautiful fictions.

That’s what I did on Monday morning.

I set up at the kitchen table with a cup of chamomile tea (good for the nerves), a notebook and pen as well as my laptop. Ideal, right?

Just like my dreams.

Except it’s early August, and the sun streams directly into that kitchen window in glorious bright rays.

So, I’m sweltering at the kitchen table, unable to think of anything except how hot it is, and that’s when Tane decides to bake anxiety bread.

What’s anxiety bread, you ask?

It’s bread we don’t need because we already have loaves in the house, but it soothes Tane to make them, and he needs a lot of soothing what with organizing a wedding. Also he lives hundreds of miles away from his family and he gave up a successful music career to live in tiny little Foggy Basin, which barely has more than two roads.

And like, I love bread. Especially warm, right out of the oven fresh bread that smells as good as it tastes, i.e. divine.

And I love Tane, my soon-to-be-brother in law. Tane is from Aotearoa New Zealand, he's tall with soft brown skin and eyes that twinkle when he's amused. His black wavy hair is hidden under a bandanna while he cooks.

He’s humming to himself as he kneads the dough. He has a wonderful voice. I was a fan of his music well before I ever met him, so it’s not like a I mind the humming, or the wedding. I love love, and I love Tane and Dillon (my brother) together. But it’s not even happening until December 20th, and it was sending Tane into all kinds of spirals.

But the slapping of the dough and random snippets of different songs do not a soothing background noise make.

I needed something easier to ignore.

Something more constant.

I grabbed my laptop, notebook and a handful of pens. Even a pencil, in case my muse wanted a pencil to write with, into a backpack, changed into pants that were appropriate to wear out of the house, and said see ya to Tane.

The Blue Star Diner, that would be the place I created my masterpiece. Maybe I had the Next Great American Novel in me? If I did the diner would certainly bring it out of me.

I set myself up at a corner booth with my tools within easy reach including a steaming cup of coffee and a toasted everything bagel.

Harlow walked in, her long chestnut hair falling about her shoulders. She's tall, and gorgeous, and has round Kardashian-style hips. She saw me and made her way over, high heels clicking on the diner floor. “Hey, Aster, how are you?”