Switching Up the Recipe

Writing can be like cooking—you’re going to have to improvise some of those instructions.

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When I think about writing, I picture a can of Chef Boyardee’s ABC’s & 123’s, an amalgamation of red and orange slop. I’m left to decode and rearrange with filthy fingers. Some days I create an unexpectedly delicious meal worthy of admiration. Others, I’m rubbing sauce all over a crisp white shirt and telling the mess to go fuck itself. 

Different authors give different writers different advice. You can scour any book on writing and still find that their methods don’t work for you. It can feel daunting, knowing that Stephen King is writing one way while Brandon Sanderson is writing another. Emily Dickinson wrote in a much different way than Mary Shelley who wrote differently than Octavia Butler, Rebecca Yarros, Casey McQuiston, and so forth. I could name dozens more and the point would still stand that, though these are incredible writers, it doesn’t mean that their methods work for you.

For me, I built my own methods over time. And, as I grow in my craft, I find better ones. My methods for writing vary based on what medium I’m using to write with, what genre I’m writing for, and the headspace I’m in at the time. 

Something that has helped me immensely is switching up the format. If I’m working on a chapter of my novel, chances are I have a copy in Bibisco, a Google Doc, and a Word document. If I’m feeling frisky, I will put it in a Tumblr draft. Each of these holds its own purpose for me. I usually format my writing in the standard 12pt font while using Baskerville. If I’m feeling stuck, one of the most helpful tools I’ve utilized is changing the font.

I know. That sounds absurd and way too simple. However, it has been a game changer for me. Sometimes I’ll even change the color of my pen or the document, just to stimulate my brain and catch errors more easily. Even turning on (or off) “dark mode” can significantly help. And, if in dire straights, I’ll increase the font to 14pt. I know. It’s the most chilling decision I could ever make. But, like the brave idiot I am, I do it.

I tend to oscillate between the fonts Baskerville, Alice, Spectral, and Times New Roman. Though they are basic in terms of visuals, it doesn’t mean that they can’t change how you see your work. Try any font you want, even silly ones. See what you find yourself adapting to. I do this a lot with every medium I choose to write in.

Despite my moans and groans and eventual crying spells over exhausted metaphors, I continue to try and write poetry. If I just give up on everything I’ve started, then what’s the point? A solution I’ve found is changing perspective on what it is I’m writing. A way to do that is just playing around with format. 

Like with my novel or journal posts, I will switch the font. Unlike those projects, I fumble around with where the poem itself is aligned on the page. If it’s left-aligned, I will center it. If it’s centered, I will left-align. Hell, for kicks I’ll take it to the right. Alongside these small changes, I will focus on how long each line is. Either I’ll extend these lines or cut them off and make them into two. If each stanza is three lines, I will extend it to four. If it’s four, I’ll cut it down to three. I will repeat this process until the pieces connect and the landscape expands.

Like I said, writing is a messy process that is as rewarding as it is draining. There aren’t enough words in the Thesaurus to give your sentence or phrase its proper emotion. There aren’t enough books on writing to keep you on a realistic schedule that works for you.  

Nothing Jason Reynolds says is going to stop me from grinding away on my large whiteboard at two in the morning, rearranging a paragraph I’m struggling with until I doze off. Pablo Neruda himself couldn’t save me from abandoning a poem for two months simply due to doubt and self-loathing.

However, I still encourage both of us to keep going. Us writers wallow in our dramatic tragedy, plagued by the need to extract our obsessive thoughts and get them onto a physical or digital page. The only way to squash these qualms and improve is to keep going. And we will, one boiling pot of pasta sauce at a time.

An Introduction

Wondering why I’m here? Me, too.

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Emerging into the endless congestion of traffic, the swarm of Downtown Atlanta awaits me. Each time I drive through these hellscape lanes, I can’t help but smile. Perhaps let out a tiny chuckle as I beat into the ground the famous line of The B-52’s “Love Shack”: 

“I’m heading down the Atlanta highway.”

I’ve done this for the last year, no matter the time of day. Whether it be a race to a bar or a two in the morning return to my small apartment, I always give myself a moment of reflection and appreciation for the life I’ve begun to cultivate. Despite the state of this country or the uncertainty of my future, I can reassure myself that everything is okay. Even for a few moments. 

In the last few years of my short-lived life, I have come to the conclusion that I am not extraordinary. My existence is nothing new or exciting. The most recent example came in the thick opaque cloud of a smoke machine at The Basement, an underground club in East Atlanta. I was approached by a friend who’d been searching for me, yelling into my ear, “Everybody in here looks just like you.”

There’s never been a better way to gain a neutral perspective of myself. 

We spend our time curating our identities, carefully crafting the image we want to imitate when we look in the mirror. For me, it’s usually a smattering of black eyeliner and crimson lipstick, goading myself into believing I’m a vampire. When I started going outside, I learned very quickly that there are girls with the same “aesthetic” in every club, bar, and coffee shop in Atlanta. 

Why am I saying all of this? Isn’t this supposed to be a blog about local businesses?

The answer is yes. And no.

When I moved to Atlanta in December of 2023, I had no expectations for what my life was going to look like. There were no guidelines I was to abide by. To put it simply, I was given the chance to break free of the mundanity that trapped me in Memphis and Chattanooga. Now, here I am, in the second year of Adventure: practically unemployed, directionless, and striving to continue to write no matter what happens. 

I am an outsider, much like a good percentage of those living here. Each city that makes up this area is only known to me in passing glimpses and short-lived memories. For now, I find myself capturing what begets inspiration and the discoveries that come about once it’s put onto the page.

This journal is a love letter to my curiosity for writing, influential discovery, and a city whose many faces drew me here.