Creative Nonfiction in the works

(I have no idea where I’m going with this…..)

When I first started working at a winery, it took me months to fully master the art of removing red wine stains from my shoes. Blot, don’t rub, Dawn dish washing liquid soap, hydrogen peroxide, let it soak. If you panic, you might forget the rules and start rubbing, if that happens, start saving up for a new pair of shoes. You must always wear closed-toe in case you drop something on your feet like a glass or a wine opener and if you want to solve the stain issue by risking those injuries, well, spill wine on your exposed toes and you could lose traction and slip. The only way to ensure a safe and clean shift at Symphony Vineyards, is to have entered the position already fluent in pouring without shaking and serving without fumbling. As for myself, I had started after a long summer of grieving.

The tasting room manager, Nicole Savino, escorted me into the lounge when I had arrived for my first interview. The lounge was rather large, filled with art that customers could purchase, a stage for live music, and black tables with matching stools for the guests to sit and enjoy their tastings at. The walls were bright red underneath the art and through the contrast made my faded, white Keds look like they were brand new. We took our seats at the table furthest from the stage and I pulled out my resume. Before studying it, she looked at me, trying to determine if I was a good fit based on first glance.

“So, Katherine, what have you been up to this Summer?”

It had been September, not the ideal time to apply for a job that had already surpassed its peak season.

“Well, um.” I noticed she was studying my hands, perhaps for steadiness. I quickly put them onto my lap.

“I graduated college in May, from Salisbury University; it’s a small state school in Maryland. I’ve been back home applying for jobs ever since but it hasn’t exactly been working out in my favor.”

She finally looked at my resume.

“BA in writing and rhetoric? What is that?”

I took a deep breath, “it’s basically like, writing to evoke some kind of em-“

“Oh, but I see you’ve worked as a waitress before?”

I was actually grateful for the interruption. It was one of those questions I get asked a lot, but every time I started to explain I would catch people’s eyes looking in different directions and their disinterest was nothing but looming. It had been months since I had familiarized myself with the material, anyway, and I myself was starting to lose understanding of the subject.

Nicole sent me home with an employee manual and told me to return the following weekend for training. The employee manual contained just what you would expect; the policy, dress code, tax forms, the wine list, and a rundown of the history behind the winery.

“A lot of people are going to ask you about it,” she said, “so be sure to read carefully.”


The Art of Pursuing Words

When I hear the word pursue, I commonly think of two things: careers and people. Then again, why wouldn’t I? What is more important than pursuing a career you love and/or someone you love? But if you look up the dictionary definition it literally means “to follow (someone or something) in order to catch or attack them,” and suddenly I’m wracking my head for a better word to put on my resume. Suddenly, I’m thinking about stalkers, predators, lions in the jungle pursuing their prey. Suddenly, I’m searching for a better word to describe the boy down the street who I thought I wanted to pursue but now; only want to know. I was going to say “have” but how possessive?

Isn’t it strange how words, something so concrete and definitive, never really come across the way you want them to? We rely on them so much and yet, they’re never really there for us the way we hope they’d be. The way we meant for them to be.


maybe i don’t fit into you the way i thought

maybe none of me ever did

I changed
my locks for you and put the keys under your mat
you promised
they’d be safe but I haven’t seen them since you invited me into your grasp

did you lose them inside of yourself?

I tore one out of my rib cage and the other
out of my side
the last one
came straight from my chest
I had to pick at my skin and scratch underneath
the surface but I felt
alive and my blood was on fire
that’s what it was: hurt and happiness
all at the same time for the sake of that safety
I so graciously gave away
to you so perhaps you should dig deeper
check your hands and your hips and maybe even your collar bones
check in all of the places you have been hurt
before and if you find that you are empty
know that you have lost a part of me
while you were searching
for yourself




A Blogger Fueled by Emotions…

Recently, I was told I think more emotionally rather than rationally. It was a realization that was always there, I suppose, deep inside that explained a lot of things. Like why I never think before I speak because my feelings are immediate, why my writing is always fueled by sadness, and why I act irrationally when my emotions aren’t satisfied the way I want them to be. I never understood why, most of the time, I have regretted a lot of my actions and the things I say to people I care about wherever emotions are involved. But looking back on it now, after hearing that take on myself, I realized it was because I never had the time to think rationally. Because it’s true. Maybe I don’t think rationally at all.

It’s not a bad thing. But I’m taking it negatively because of how many times I seemed to have lost my mind when things were not in my control. I could blame it on my parents for giving me everything I have ever wanted growing up, but how cliche? This is my fault. This is my own fucked up thinking. This is my problem to fix.

This month is going to be really hard but extremely important. I have always viewed myself as a mature person but I have a lot of growing up to do these next few weeks. I need to learn how to be okay, behave reasonably, and more importantly not drag anybody down or push anybody away (even further than I already have) just because things are not in my control. I can’t make people feel the way I do, and I shouldn’t except them to. I have always been ashamed at how intensely I feel things whether it be love, dislike, excitement, etc. and now that I’ve figured out why that shame exists, I have to push it all away. I have to be rational in this pivotal moment.


Creative Writing

From Purple to you

I used to have a purple room. It was closet-like and immature but I asked for it because the purple and white color scheme intrigued me. It reminded me of confidence. Girls who had rooms like that never needed anybody to tell them where they fit into the world, because they never had to worry about figuring it out. It was either already planned for them, or they just simply didn’t care.

My bed was a twin-sized with a purple silk bedspread and zebra-printed sheets. It stayed that way, tidy and reassuring, for eight years. I almost returned home to it after college until my mom decided to turn it into a guest room. She took out my twin bed, she painted blue over my purple walls, she turned my purple silk bedspread into a green quilt, and her excuse: “I thought you were never coming back.” I wasn’t supposed to, mom.

I got used to the queen-sized bed. I went from sleeping in the middle of it, to sprawling out diagonally, to eventually just sleeping on it perpendicularly all together. The space started to soothe me and I had completely broken the habit of huddling into myself on the small, cloud-like mattress pad that was my old bed. But then, on a night after spilling tears and embarrassingly showing the world that I could never be the confident girl in the purple room, you came into my bed.

You took the right side and I huddled into myself on the left when you fell asleep during our argument. I was being more honest with you than I had ever been and it slipped you into unconsciousness. Arms crossed. Drunk. No desire to touch me. Ever since then, I have found myself creeping into the left side of the bed, holding my legs, and trying not to disturb you.

Don’t be alarmed. I know you’re not there. But I keep waiting for you to tell me you’ll stay.


Where to Begin – For Someone With Minimal Talent

Where to Being – For Someone With Minimal Talent

Lately, I’ve been especially struggling with several different aspects of my life. I say especially because although I have struggled before, it was never with things as important than this, or at a time more imperative than this one. Career, relationships, discovering what makes me happy in general, you know, typical worries for a 22 year old to have and that every adult swears will “sort itself out if you are patient.” Here’s the thing, though: I am not.

If I told you how many times I’ve tried to start a blog, a journal, a short story, really anything to do with writing for that matter, you would laugh in my face and probably tell me I am just not passionate enough. If I was, maybe I would’ve finished something by now. Maybe I would have kept up with that journal or finished that story or just flat out did anything I said I was going to do. However, not only am I impatient: I am a wanderer. Not in a dreamlike, romanticized, kind of way. I’m usually very present. But my passions wander constantly, taking a pit stop and different destinations until it becomes too comfortable or scared and has to flee.

I want to be a writer. I want to publish books. I want to take pictures. So I do these things on a whim and then I stop. The destination didn’t get old for me, I just didn’t feel good enough for it. So here’s me expressing that I am going to get better. Everything still terrifies me, I still don’t think I am creative enough to over come it, but I am going to try.