Take one: My alarm fell off the nightstand and I woke up late.
Take two: The screaming alarm refused to be silenced as it buzzed itself off of my tall, white, nightstand – the one with two shelves and an adorable door to hide the books and journals residing inside. My technology powered machine, phone caller and text messager by day // alarm and radio by night, dropped to the mahogany wood floor beneath my cozy queen size bed like a kamikaze pilot.
A bed that stands so high that it requires a little jump for me to bury myself under the sheets and massive comforter. I had surrounded myself with the matching throw pillows the night before, falling asleep to the steady drip drop, drip drop of the winter rainstorm happening just outside my window. Falling asleep to such peace surely did not prepare my body for the harsh awakening of my relentless alarm. Don’t you just hate when mornings start like that?
As we write write write, my professors constantly remind us that the key to success in an academic paper is lucid brevity. It is the art of saying something in the briefest way possible, while remaining clear.
This aspect of writing has undoubtedly challenged me more than any other.
I am enamored by the way that syllables dance together like experienced couples on a ballroom floor. Or like silly college students at the wedding celebration of life-giving friends. Elegant or messy, they spin intentionally into sentences that make my heart sing.
I like words. And I like to make them dance.
I’m a storyteller bent on redemption and the thought of lucid brevity makes me feel like I’m not allowed to invite my favorite people to game night with coffee and cookies.
As I close the first chapter of this little thing called grad school, I have made my residence in the library, and forgotten all hopes of rest or sleep. Coffee and donuts are my only sustenance and in some ways, I couldn’t be happier. There is something unmatchable about doing the thing you know you’re supposed to do. Even when it looks like this.
I’m learning that sometimes (aka: in academia), it’s a different kind of gathering and my fun sentence constructs wouldn’t enjoy the party. But overall, I need to keep inviting those crazy syllables to make new friends and tell new stories and induce more laughter. They may be left out of the papers, but not the heart that wrote them.