Starving Artist: How to Improve Your Writing

I love art. When you read the word “art”, I’m sure your brain triggers thoughts of painting, and sculpture, perhaps a trip to a museum. I don’t believe art is that exclusive. Art can be a masterfully written essay, a heartfelt song, a beautiful bedtime story as well as the aforementioned painting, sculptures and the like. Being an artist of the written word, I have a great appreciation for fellow artists no matter their trade.

Something I have always regretted is not expanding my knowledge and abilities in the arts. I wish I had learned to play an instrument. I wish I could paint the sunset.  However, there is something these varieties of art participate in that I believe my specialty can benefit from borrowing. Musicians improve their understanding of tone and melodies by practicing, some of the best practice every day. Visual artists often hone their skills with daily sketches. Writers need to adopt this discipline.

Writing a memoir, fictional story or recount of history (among others) cannot be accomplished overnight. It can’t be finished in a week. It is undoubtedly the art with the longest investment in the completion of a single task. For some writers, like myself, the prized project could take years, a decade even. So how do you improve your wordsmith abilities? Even writing a short story or piece of poetry could wrap you into another assignment. Taking a page out of the musicians and visual artists’ playbook, I propose writers practice their skills with fifteen to thirty minute vignettes.

From now on, the majority of my writing specific posts will entertain this desire. Using a random list of objects, people and places I will write a piece for the allotted time in a free-flowing manner, neglecting my usual craving to edit. This sort of practice is something I suggest for all writers. I hope at over time for this drill to become a daily staple and something writers can share with each other.  

The Breakfast Crawl

While on an unrelated work assignment, I found myself touring bakeries and cafés in the Metrowest and Norfolk county areas of Greater Boston.  My objective quickly transformed from a simple, yet repetitive task to a ravenous, impromptu food critic. Expecting to see mountains of scones, muffins and bagels, it came as a surprise to me that each bakery also sported some savory shade of a luncheon café. Had this trail taken me through these quaint, side-road shops several hours later, surely I would have sampled their great array of sandwiches, but alas, it was barely past the sunrise so I happily dined on delectable pastries. I broke from my typical pattern of eating in which I purchase the same item in order to choose which was best at the end of the day and instead opted to embrace the variety of breakfast fare.

At the beginning of the bakery crawl, I chose to obtain a sampling of a hole-in-the-wall’s delightful muffins, keeping to tradition I had the chocolate chip—slightly warmed. I knew at the first velvety bite that it was a stroke of luck I had a partner helping me that day; otherwise my stomach would soon be none-too-happy with me. We devoured the muffin from its sugary top down, ensuring each bite held a morsel of chocolate. Nearly a mile further down that road was a bagel shop, their everything-style bagel, slathered with lox-cream cheese and a side of iced coffee (hazelnut, of course) paired perfectly for a hearty second breakfast.

We meticulously looped through the town and located a larger, well marketed establishment that had just recently changed hands. The stream of customers boosted my belief in the eatery’s quality. Soon enough, their generous sampling of sweet breads placed precariously atop their counter was vultured clean in seconds. I was merely able to snag a piece of apple danish and cinnamon bread before the platter was retracted.  Nonetheless, the meager snack satisfied my trust in the bakery’s claim of having the best bread in the county. But despite my taste buds begging for another bite of the danish, I had developed a whisper in my head instructing me to trek northward to the mythical home of what I had heard was the best croissant outside of Paris.

Another unplanned stop held me back from the buttery goodness awaiting ten miles away as we parked for a shared frozen mango smoothie. This was the precise boost of fruit needed to urge us further towards the final stop of the day and hopefully the famed croissant. As the mound of whipped cream melted into our mango drink just as the miles faded behind the wheels of the car, we emerged into the bustling town center of red brick buildings flanking a thriving park. Sitting on the common, this bakery was the most vibrant of all the others we had visited that morning. And there it was. Parked next to several incarnations of the luscious dough was the chocolate croissant. Light and airy, it practically floated onto our plate. Drizzled with chocolate and filled with the same smooth substance, the croissant pulled apart in flakey layers. Like unwrapping a long awaited Christmas present, I cherished each piece of the croissant before inhaling the thick, luscious center.

As the final bite disappeared, I regretted sharing this scrumptious pastry, devilishly eyeing its counterpart as it too was devoured. Feeling heavier already, we relaxed at the table long enough to recall how nearly each bakery we visited also boasted cupcakes; dainty cakes in all sizes: mini, cup or jumbo. Classic versions, specialty flavors and two for three deals. It was settled: as soon as we recovered from the marathon eating event, we would venture out again to discover if these bakeries could support an equally delicious cupcake crawl as well.

Top Five Massachusetts Audubon Sights

If you share my kindred love for nature, this list is for you. The National Audubon Society has preserves, sanctuaries and centers in nearly every state and even some US territories. Their mission to conserve America’s natural wildlife is breathtaking, not only in their extensive effort but the sights their parks offer. The Massachusetts Audubon is one-step removed from its national brethren, providing a local stomping-ground for the state’s residents with specialized rewards for its members. I was practically raised on these timeless sanctuaries, spotting animals through the brush and calling out bird names after their sweet songs. As a product of an Audubon wedding and a current employee, it seemed fitting to post my top five Mass Audubon locations.

Welfleet Bay, Welfleet – This prime Cape Cod sanctuary takes the top spot for its winding trails that snake visitors through a seaside forest before breaking into a magnificent seascape of the bay. The low tide estuaries harbor extensive sea life begging for a closer look, and the hide tide observation platform offers a glimpse into a hidden world.

Stony Brook, Norfolk – There is slight favoritism being played here since this is my second home during the spring and summer months. Located south-east of Boston, Stony Brook provides a central pond with accompanying marshes that are easily navigable. Crossing through three habitats on your walk, spotting a variety of animals on the short walk is commonplace.  

Joppa Flats, Newburyport – Unusual terrain is not often as accessible as this Newburyport landmark. Nestled along the ocean’s edge, this north shore sanctuary draws you along placid salt-marshes and through living mudflats to the best location in Massachusetts for birding elusive birds and waterfowl.

Drumlin Farm, Lincoln – The name itself is indicative of its unmatched excellence for entertaining children. Its namesake farm houses grazing animals and the ageless hayride. Moreover, the compact loop of zoo-style exhibits allow for an interactive trail: the aviary is a personal favorite as is the underground room, giving a covert insight to burrowing animals. This sanctuary is a must-visit for young nature-lovers.

Broadmoor, Natick – Vast fields and a beautiful inland marsh provide the tranquil backdrop for a secluded walk. Patrons can traverse the paths while leaving their daily worries behind. Broadmoor is a wonderful viewing station for the transition of the seasons. Each cyclic visit opens new passageways to inspiration and reflection. After all, the bend in the boardwalk was the site of my parent’s wedding.

This list is only one review of the dozens of options available. Explore and make your own list! Outdoorsman, or not, the Mass Audubon houses such a vibrant collection of sights that people from all walks of life can find the right walk for them.

The Truth About Harvard Writers

In the early, misty days of April I was privileged with a chance to attend the Harvard Writer’s Conference as a supplement to my editorial internship with book writing coach, Lisa Tener. The heavily anticipated weekend lived up to every wild concoction my nerves imagined. As an introduction to the inner-workings of the publishing industry, the flustered, tension-filled meeting room of seductively intimidating insiders offered an essential reality check. The marvelous Fairmont hotel function room had a heartbeat. And it was racing.

Hundreds of names, book pitches and rehearsed jokes bombarded me as I shadowed my inundated supervisor handling the tidal wave of authors like a season pro. I could merely listen and hope I retained every word. But my mental bookshelf only had room for so many volumes. On a whim I decided to brave the waters on my own. Venturing into the nearby workshops, I soaked up as much information as each presenter provided. Chicken-scratch notes recorded the most pertinent points. Finding hope. That stuck. The speaker prompted everyone to quickly describe a peaceful, remote island. Soft white sand washing rhythmically with the surf. A refreshing breeze saturated with salt. The cheerful calls of tropical creatures.

I connected with nearby attendants sporting a familiar, daunted stare. “What do you write about?” I was surprised that’s all it took. The knot in my shoulders untied as I found a common ground. Knowing everyone harbored similar dreams and goals made the rest of the conference as comfortable as a blue-sky summer cook-out with family laughing around the smoky charcoal grill. A blur of casual meals, miniaturized think-tank’s and rickety train rides to and from Boston became the patchwork of memories I took from this highly sought after collection of experts and future experts. Of all the workshops I wondered which would improve my writing. A mother from the suburbs I spoke with questioned if she could write her book. Everyone that pitched dwelled on their flights home if the agents would offer a contract. Really, we were all seeking hope. And I believe this conference is where we found it.

Wisdom Teeth Extraction Makes You Wiser

The horror stories compounded. Getting your wisdom teeth extracted created innumerable problems ranging from bruises to sleepless nights. As friends and family consoled me about the oncoming surgery, no one seemed to understand my true discontent. Liquid food. It took weeks of sympathetic head-tilts until finally my aunt pointed out the real concern. I would be deprived of an entire week or more worth of good nosh. But I had the will to persevere.

After the inebriating drugs wore off, I piled into creating decent food for my sore but insatiable desires. Jello, pudding and soup. It took several hours before this got tiring. I craved crunchy snacks like nuts and cereal, never mind being able to open my jaw wide enough to enjoy a decent sandwich. But the misery didn't last long and was rewarded tenfold. Almost exactly two weeks after my teeth were extracted, my gradual return to solid food was complete with the delicious culmination of the perfect burger.

My jaw didn't click or crack when I began devouring the burger. The back of my mouth wasn't sore and every bite was full of deep grilled flavor with the perfect accoutrement of rich caramelized onions and crisp lettuce and tomato. No ketchup needed. I have never eaten another burger without condiments and been so pleased. Each scrumptious note of the burger blended together in a wondrous symphony. It even made me push away the perfectly season sweet potato fries that lounged at its side. The path from surgery to burger was slippery and bland, but it forced me to savor success.

Food Adventure

My most memorable time with food was a marathon of discovering, cooking and eating that ensued during my visit to Spain last semester to see my friend Kristin over half-term break. We are hometown friends that share a mutual passion for food. I landed in Madrid at 8pm. We began our search for munchies at 8:01.

It started as a simple bag of jamon flavored chips and turned into an entire late night meal. We fumbled together a delicious Spanish omelet with the leftover eggs from the carton we accidentally spilled upon the floor. Crackling oil, simmering the garlic and onions was soon joined by thinly sliced potatoes and a healthy mashing later the eggs were added. The was the first of three Spanish omelets we made over a five day period. Not only did the meal fill me up, but it spawned a several hour discussion late into the night.

Although the rest of my visit was supposed to show me the various places in Madrid and immerse me in the Spanish culture, it truly focused on the varied nosh the city offered. Kabop sandwiches, tapas, paella, churros, pastries, empandas. The list was endless. We ate at every meal. We ate when there was no meal and we ate to pass the time. When most girls would find pleasure in clothes shopping, my friend and I went shopping for food. Scanning aisles, trying samples, reading labels. We put together our meals more than we ate out. It had a homey feel even though most of the eats were foreign to me. My favorite was our tapas night with sangria. We enjoyed it so much, the pair of us replicated it this summer for the rest of our friends. Furthermore, I made it for my family and my friends here at URI.

The time we spent eating in Madrid was unlike any other experience I've had. After most trips I remember people, what they said and where we went. Photos from my sightseeing. Funny moments frozen in time. But from this excursion, I recall the sweet tang of sangria; the chewy churros drenched in thick chocolate; the smooth texture of the tortilla; the sounds of cooking and the laughter during each of our meals. It is truly a palpable memory, encoded on my tongue and flooding my nostrils to this day.

Tube at Congestion Time

Last semester, while I was studying abroad in London, my British friends told me that I couldn't consider myself to have had a real London experience until I had traveled on the tube during congestion time (think rush hour). This seemed like such a frivolous suggestion. Surely the experience would be made by seeing a play or catching a glimpse of the queen (both things I actually did do), but they were insistent that I had to take the congestion tube. For my first six weeks, I had no reason to go into central (the heart of the city) at 7am or return at 4pm. But it just so happened that one frozen Monday morning in February, my London History class took our usual trip into the city that required more transfers and a longer time on the underground.

I ventured out with my flatmates, Kevin, Simon (from the US), Stina and Becca (from Norway) in order to get to our class meeting place (Baker Street...think Sherlock Holmes) on time. This meant we had to leave the campus at 7am. Luckily, our overground station was just a few hundred yards away, across the bustling street of tiny cars and massive trucks, a red-double-decker whizzing by every few minutes and through the tiresome beeping of the crosswalk sign. Since we all had a long way to go and it was during congestion time (traveling is more expensive then), we needed to top up (top off) our oyster cards (think easy-pass) before we departed. Once our charges were settled, we checked in at the swipe-points. The ride of a lifetime had begun. I had taken the overground many times before, sometimes with these same people and we had never seen such a dense congregation of travelers on the platform. Our little borough was south-east of central and I had no idea such copious amounts of people lived in our area, all ages and races, shivering in the bitter cold. There were so many people, bundled in pea coats and scarves that when the train to London Bridge arrived, eight cars long, we had to wait ten extra minutes for the next train to arrive.

At that time, we boarded the overground and chugged off to the next check-point. In a compartment that usually comfortably seats everyone, we had to cram into the entrance-exit area along with people reading newspapers, listening to their ipods or feeding their infants in bulky carriages. The rickety journey to London Bridge took the usual eight minutes; tall flats blurring by the windows, the city streets becoming more convoluted and the tourists more numerous. After we disembarked and checked into the Underground, we hit a deadlock of travelers on the several flights of escalators down. We decided to take the faster route, and stepped to the left to descend the electric stairs at a swift pace. The only means of avoiding the mob was to run. However we weren't alone in this idea. Rushing through the Central (Red) Line entry corridor, the five of us came to the embarking platform where a horde of commuters waited for the tube to arrive. A moment later it did. Mind the gap, was announced.

A mad dash ensued. Kevin practically piledrived himself through the crowd, forcing the rest of us to follow and in doing so, we managed to squish ourselves into the back of the car. We were elbow-to-elbow, pressed against the grip poles, the windows or other passengers. I, personally, was between a tall man, Stina and another few university students, with not even an inch of clearance between us. Everyone looked to the floor or the advertisements along the car wall. Anything to avoid each other. It was then we realized Simon was left on the platform and Becca had entered a separate car. The doors were shut, the tube was leaving the platform. Simon would have to get the next train. Squeals, shrieks and squeaks. Our following transfer station arrived and even though we were closest to the doors, it was a struggle to exit. Stina's bag was stuck between a woman and the wall, my foot was tangled with the tall man's shoes and Kevin tripped on his way out.

Upon our exit, a stampede of humans rushed through the corridor options, connecting them with other underground lines. We took the Jubilee (Gray) Line north to Baker Street, which sent us down a spiraling stairwell. Hundreds behind us and hundreds in front, each step seemingly took us closer to Hell, heat swelling through the stairs and a stench much like wet dogs and gym socks filled the air. This trip was not unlike our experience on the Central Line, however we waited for Becca and Simon to rejoin us before we set off once more. This sardine experience was worse. I was closer in height with the young man I squished into and was forced to engage in small-talk in order to avoid an uncomfortable ride. His name was Roger and he was connecting to the Bakerloo (Brown) Line so he could meet an inbound frie

nd at Paddington Station. He was kind and his content expression said that he'd dealt with this madness before. Me and my companions however crinkled our noses and glared in every direction, fully fed up with the overcrowded car. We were all more than pleased to hear our station called so we could disembark.

Exiting the tube and riding up the escalator into the fresh air was such a relief. I could see the sun peaking through London fog and it began to smell like a lemony-fresh cleaning solution that had become synonymous with the Underground. Although the aggravated mumble of commuters continued to the street, our tensions melted when we spotted the rest of the class and our Professor waiting atop the stairs in a bright atrium. I would love to say that was the last time I traveled on the congestion time tube. Or the last time I made idle conversation with another passenger. Unfortunately, it happened several other times. But this initial jarring experience was the smelliest, most uncomfortably crowded traveling I ever did.