Day 6- Coffee

I have decided to investigate creative writing. I love reading and looking for meaning between the lines of my favourite books, so I thought; why not try to write something myself? I'm doing this '30 day challenge' to ease myself in, as I wanted to fully dip all of my toes into the writing world before I attempt anything more serious, such as a novel. I am not doing the days in order however, so I am begining with day 6: Second Person Coffee. I have not written in second person and I have no explanation why not, but I felt inspired to write this because of a painting I saw the other day. I don't really expect it to be very good, but I'm hoping practise will make perfect.

'clack clack clack' the heels of my slightly too small and year old booties hit the pavement with an empty sound as I stagger and stutter through the open door. I swing it shut, looking at the peeling yellow paint with disgust and wondering why I ever thought painting it that colour would be a good idea. It was supposed to represent sunshine. The sunny door in the otherwise shadowy street.

"Yeah right" I whisper through my triple knit scarf. I see nothing but the rain.

My pace quickens. The wind whistles through my ears. Rain thuds through me. My temperature lowers. Focus. Concentrate. Just a few streets to go.

I push through the rain with my already sagging umbrella, cursing myself for thinking a cheap-o one would suffice. I begin to regret leaving the house at all, but I couldn't face another cold winter's afternoon trapped indoors working into my 1999 desktop. I would go out, take a risk by daring to work in public.

I slow down as my destination appears on the horizon and breathe a drawn out sigh. If this is a 'risk', I must be the most boring person alive.

'ding!'

I heave open the always too heavy, but now impossible door and try to force my way in with my umbrella. About 12 faces look up at me. They see the commotion but I am not acknowledged. A dozen cold lifeless eyes meet mine as I stagger forwards. My heart sinks as I realise that my safe and happy haven may not be as easy to find as I thought.

The door slams behind me with a gust of wind which sends three notepads awry. Their owners bat me a lifeless stare and one man widens his eyes slowly as I lurch forwards to help. I remember my umbrella and soaking gloves. He's probably right.

I decide to begin the courteous procedure of entrance. I turn, slowly closing my polka-dot umbrella, shaking it onto the mat behind me as I do so. I glance through the window at the storm outside and am met with a weak sense of triumph that I made it this far. I awkwardly place my umbrella in the already full basket, unbutton my coat and shake out my hair. This feels good, as though I am beginning a new moment and leaving my uphill battle against the storm outside on the now sodden welcome mat.

As I tread cautiously through the small room, clutching my bag and coat, I glance down at the tables. There are two newspapers, three writers and one lonely iPad user. The customers are spread out into small groups. I feel a sudden urge to join one of them, realising suddenly that coffee alone at home and lonely coffee in public are not as different as I believed them to be.

"A large cappuccino please"

I pour some coins onto the counter pathetically and slide into a seat near the back of the room, assembling my things purposefully and carefully. When my coffee arrives I feel an even stronger sense of accomplishment, breathing in the familiar smell and feeling more productive by the second.

As I take the first sip I am reminded of the drink's rich flavours. The top notes of sweetness with that familiar underlying and bitter layer lurking underneath. The cup lands back on the saucer with a satisfying clink. I remember why I am there and reach for my sketchbook.

The fuchsia cover is the only colour in the shop. I don't care about the dirt and sugar on the table's surface, I have no need to impress this book. I call it a sketchbook, because that's what it is, but I am no artist. I write. Letters, poems, and of most importantly my stories. 

This is the moment I love the most. The delving back into the fictional world I have created. I am on chapter 13 of the first draft of my latest novel, and I know from my planning where I intend to go. I wish it were the same with my own life, but in reality you never know when the sun is going to come out.

I glance through the window to the new shimmer over the soaking pavement as the mist begins to clear. I take another sip.

If anyone wants to tell me what they thought of this, you are more than welcome to give constructive critisizm of ANY form. Seriously. I welcome any comment you have. (Maybe not blind insults, but any advice or critisizms; throw them at me!)

Nails: None, as I may well be working in a kitchen soon.
Currently reading: The Hobbit by Tolkien (you know who it's by)
Listening to: Rain. I have no time for music!

:)