writing

miles to go before i sleep

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

I used to run. Five or more times a week. Four to eight miles each day. Life used to happen while I was running.

I would drive out to Folly Beach. Park in an open lot near 2nd or 3rd streets and walk out through the dunes toward the water. I’d usually go right first, toward the pier. I’d run until the beach ended. Until there was nowhere left to go.

I’d stop there and just take in the view. All sea oats and foamy peaks and glittering water and nothing more. I’d give myself a minute, maybe two. Sometimes I’d even stop my iPod and just listen.

Then I’d turn around and go back. On good days I’d even go past where I parked, toward the water tower, picking up some extra miles along the way.

The last quarter-mile or so I’d gradually increase my pace until I was all out sprinting as I crossed a mental finish line. Hearing the voice of my old track coach in my head with every stride, “Finish strong, Shelnutt!”

On the way home, I’d ride with my windows down the whole way, no matter what temperature it was outside. It was the runner’s high. An incredible feeling. A euphoria. An overwhelming state of absolute satisfaction.

Somehow, the habit that I loved so much didn’t hold. I lost it along the way. I moved away from the beach. Tried running downtown, in gyms, in parking lots. I tried trails and bridges. I found partners and lost partners. I bought new sneakers. Ran 5k’s and 10k’s and half marathons. But I never could get back to that place.

Where running wasn’t exercise. It was just my time. A gift. It was a moment of therapy. A moment of glory. A moment of peace and pain at the same time.  A moment where I just loved myself. I was strong and nothing else mattered.

Today, I haven’t run in months. My running shoes are old and filthy. My playlist, out of date. My sports bras and shorts hardly fit anymore. But today, I’m lacing up again. Today, I’m going to run. And again tomorrow. And again the day after that.

So hopefully, one day weeks or months from now, I’ll be able to find that place. And life will once again happen while I’m running.

a moment to create

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

I cannot overstate the importance of a moment. A brief hiatus to catch your breath. To let out a heavy sigh. To curl up in an oversized chair.

A moment with a fat round glass of red wine. A blank piece of paper and a favorite pen. A new page in a word document. A new font to go along with it.

A moment to gather your thoughts. To fumble through all the inspirations the day has gifted you. To jot down the starting points. The brilliant opening lines and character names. The underused words you stumbled upon like bacchanalia and davenport and euphonious.

A moment to capture all the details you can put to use. A short Brit with a lisp. A goldfish bowl filled with paper fortunes. A missing cat named Mosey. The sound of wiper blades on a dry windshield. A fleeting moment of déjà vu in the shower. A fading dream. A growing nightmare. An old email from when you first fell in love.

This will be the only time you have. To cater to your dream. To draft something delightful. To give yourself a chance.

You were meant to write the world a story. It’s time to create a moment for yourself.

on truths and lies

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

The truth was never a matter of right or wrong. Of light or darkness. Of knowledge or ignorance. The truth was always much slipperier than that.

It’s what creeps in while you’re sleeping. Filling gaps in memory with some alternate version of history, some derived version of reality. Filling silences with sounds. Sounds perhaps you’ve never heard, but when you wake up, they’re true too.

And we cling to it like there’s nothing else. Even as our bodies decay and our brains are not to be trusted, we hold firmly to the idea that the world is just as we remember. Every last detail in its place. Filed away. Safe and sound and true.

It’s all merely a perspective. Yours, different than mine. No less right. No less real.

The truth is it doesn’t exist. There’s not really any truth at all.

the story teller

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

On a record-breaking fiery day in early July, I came to the realization that I have a story to tell.

I will not take it to my grave. I’ll slit my wrist and let the words gush from my veins. I won’t stop until my body is bone dry. Until journals are busting at the seams. And cocktail napkins are wet with fresh ink. Until notebooks are overstuffed and bloated. And every last pencil is worn down to just a nub.

And this story, my story, is heard.

counting sheep

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

Remember fuzzy little fluffy sheep? They seem so sweet and cottony when you’re just a child.

Then all of a sudden you’re a 24-year-old at a petting zoo and sheep are fat, filthy, dull creatures. With pine straw and dirt clinging to all that wool.

How beautiful was innocence. When everything was as one-dimensional as a coloring book. As perfect as a Dick and Jane tale.

Can’t we have that back? Bumblebees with sweet smiles on their faces. Rainbows made of seven distinct rows of color. And a bright, happy sunshine sporting sunglasses.

Can’t we have fluffy white little sheep? Is it too late to get it back?

enjoy the show

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment
Turner Field in Atlanta Gerogia
Turner Field, Atlanta, GA

I was raised on baseball. Each year, my Dad would take me to a handful of Braves games at Fulton County Stadium. Sometimes we’d make a day of it, visiting The Varsity or the World of Coke on the way.

We’d park in one of the $10 gravel lots a few blocks from the ballpark. And while we strolled by walls of graffiti toward the stadium, Dad would look at me wide-eyed with a smile and jokingly say, “Did you remember to bring the tickets?”

We sat in the upper deck, along the third base line. He would sing with enthusiasm to “Centerfield” while the team warmed up. Put me in coach! I’m ready to play today…

During those nine innings, he showed me how to score a game. We talked balls and strikes and outs. Curve balls and sinkers and sliders. Bunts and steals and double plays. I loved learning all the intricacies of baseball. Like it was a secret only meant for he and I to share.

We’d wave foam tomahawks in the air as the sun beat down on us. We’d eat boiled peanuts and soft serve ice cream out of plastic Braves helmets.

I was always restless and full of energy. By the bottom of the third, I’d be squirming in my seat. And we’d be walking the length of the stadium after the sixth.

We’d stay the whole game even if there was no hope for Atlanta to come back. We’d stay until all that was left was empty plastic cups and peanut shells.

To this day, every time I watch Atlanta play on TV, it’s like I can almost smell the hot dogs, the fresh-cut grass. Feel the roar of the crowd, the thickness of the southern air.

I’ll call my dad whenever something exciting happens. And for a moment, it’s like we’re back there together. Just enjoying The Show.

searching for the write words

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

The artist sees the world in colors and patterns. In strokes and palettes and angles. The photographer, in depth and light and shadows. The musician, in strums and beats and rhythms.

And the writer sees the world in hyperbole and parables. In memoirs and fantasies. In fact and fiction and monologue and dialogue. Every action with an adverb. Every object with an adjective. Every emotion with a metaphor. Every moment dusted with allusions and alliteration.

And as life speeds by, the writer can barely process any of it, because the brain is trying desperately to find all the write words.