100 words

make a whole story

I follow an amazing writer named Mesa Fama, I’m pretty sure I found her through Elizabeth Gilbert Letters from Love.

She’s doing a 100 word essay on the daily with a few other writers and I’m enamored with them and the project: it’s a fun playground to hang out on. Below you’ll find a few tiny essays about huge moments in this little life.

But first, I stumbled across this example on the internets…

Art Matters - Neil Gaiman

I was lucky. I had an excellent library growing up, and met the kind of librarians who did not mind a small, unaccompanied boy heading back into the children’s library every morning and working his way through the card catalogue, looking for books with ghosts or magic or rockets in them, looking for vampires or detectives or witches or wonders.

They were good librarians. They would help me find other books. They would help. They treated me with respect. I was not used to being treated with respect as an eight-year-old.

And I was like -Crazy. I had the same experience! I was looking for a lot of the same books!

Here’s an excerpt from an essay I wrote about it - I tightened a section into 100 words.

My Saviors

Upon entering the library, the hush was a welcome balm for my frayed nerves. Awash with the smell of dust and dreams, I was instantly soothed by all the worlds that beckoned. 1003 places to visit, 853 characters to meet.

Two librarians fixed in my memory; I remember their gentle ways, their reflective eyes (both wore glasses), and their boring haircuts. Each understood without me saying why my pink library card was frayed and worn, why I presented it every 4 days to get a stack of 6-8 books, how they were granting me the beloved freedom to fly away. 

I don’t share much about my recovery; which is weird, because it’s a really big deal to me. I found the first story I wanted to share in 100 is the story of my first day.

Double A Run Away

Walking into the recovery meeting, my stomach was insistent that this was a terrible idea with a flip, flop and drop. I remember the smell of coffee wafting through the giant hall, the bustle of bodies hugging each other, the murmur murmur of greetings and unreasonable joy. Joy? Why joy? I mean really. I couldn’t relate.

A kind person found me a seat in the front, my constant flow of tears apparently gave my first-time-status away. By the end of the hour my stomach was convinced. Something is good here, something is yes. And there’s free coffee.

In honor of the New York Times Tiny Love Stories (where Mesa got published!), I thought I’d give my huge love story a tiny shot. If you want to read the full story of meeting my soulmate in NYC, it’s here.

1998

I couldn’t help but notice him in the airport lobby. He wore a kind expression on his handsome face, and his arms revealed ribbons of veins - the kind of arms that worked out. He was eating a sandwich that was so big it appeared to be trying to eat him. Giggling, I wrote about him in my journal. I decided he was a cowboy poet.

When he sat next to me on the plane I couldn’t believe my luck. Sandwich boy is assigned seat 19b? We talked for three hours on our way to New York and haven’t stopped since.

What do you think? Should I submit it? I’ll probably re-write it about 1,000 more times, it turns out writing 100 words is 10,000 times harder.

I could definitely write essays about these cakes. OMG, so good!