Essay: Writers March to their Own Drum

Writers write to be heard. 

We have stories in our minds and hearts. Think of it like a dam holding back a flood of water. Ideas, voices, settings, characters, they all clamor loudly. We are the dam, and if we resist, we will break. It can be voluntary and we're the mouthpiece for them. Sometimes it is not, and they burst out anyway.

Critics want to stifle that flow of words. Some attack the idea itself. It is not acceptable, not appropriate, not comfortable. Others berate the writer. That person wants attention, they want to be seen and heard. What sort of person would stand out from the crowd? Challenge conventional ways of thinking? Point out the flaws of the world around them? Indulge in worlds that may not exist in reality? Bring out emotions that are unfamiliar or unwanted? 

Who would even dare?

A creative person, of course. One who marches to a different drummer, whose path cannot be predicted or steered into a 'correct' path. One who uses their chosen medium to express their hearts and souls. This person will stand out, just by virtue of what they do. Others will notice and remark on their unique path. That path may not be paved with gold or bring untold riches, but that isn't the goal.

My writing is an expression of who I am. I need to tell the stories of the characters in my head and in my heart. Yes, it means I may not be a typical purveyor of words. It means that I tell my own truth. It may not appeal to everyone and that's all right. They are welcome to look for other writers who might appeal to them; I wouldn't be offended. I refuse to change who I am, what and how often I write, to make them feel justified or vindicated.

I don't mind communicating with other writers or readers at all. As long as we approach ideas with open minds and hearts, and not just point accusatory fingers, we all can make the world a better place with our creativity.

Keep on writing

~Sifa

Writing: So Many Universes, So Little Time

Each story and poem I write is a little universe on their own. If that's really the case, then I'm the mother of so many alternate universes. Where do they all come from? There isn't a single answer to that and half the time I'd only shrug my shoulders. Sometimes they spring up fully formed, like Athena from Zeus's head. Other ones take time to develop, like a four-star chef's recipe in a test kitchen.

The ones that stay with me, whether for a single short piece or a full blown series, all have one thing in common. I need to find a reason to connect to it. It can be a single, memorable character. It can be one particular setting. Maybe it's a line of dialogue, or an interaction between or among characters. Maybe it's the culture in where these people interact and live their lives. Or I feel a quality there, an invitation to know more about these people and these places. 

Quantum mechanics state that there are many universes coexisting at the same time. Some are small as a grain in sand, others larger than we can imagine. A writer makes their own worlds, weaves their tales set in those worlds, and they exist for a time. Even if just for a three-line poem, even in a series that spans decades, it endures for that moment.

Is a writer just attuned to these particular universes? They find a way to tap into them, interpret them in a unique way and convey it to others. Of course, there are the tropes, the nagging sense of "it's been done before", or the similarity of ideas and themes. It's the unique spin that the writer puts on those ideas that make that universe stand on its own.

I try to find that unique way that still tells my story. Each idea is different. One involves a world of dark magic and political intrigue. One shows the struggle between traditional magic and emerging technology. My protagonists fight against traditions, closed minded thinking, and hardships. Some will win and some will lose, but it's what happens in between that makes it interesting.

So keep writing in your little universes and bring that story out so others can experience it too. Give them reasons to connect to it and keep coming back. Keep writing.

~Sifa

Writing Prompt Repost: The Nine Moo Teacup

This writing prompt response is from the early days of  my original "The Eighth Shot of Espresso" writing blog on Wordpress. I've reposted it here in the new prose blog. 


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From The Write Brain Workbook by Bonnie Neubauer. Prompt is in bold.)

Pick one of these anagrams of "Once Upon a Time" to add in the starter to make your story a lot more interesting! Start with "Once Upon a time, long before the..."

Once upon a time, long before the Nine Moo Teacup opened, the building was a wizard's home. Rows upon rows of herbs lined the front yard and gave the walkway a pleasant scent. When you climbed the stairs and stepped onto the porch, tables and chairs beckoned you to sit and relax. The double doors led into the parlor. Bookshelves lined every wall, with tomes of all shapes and sizes and colors. The wooden floors gleamed in the sunlight. The wizard's experiments merrily bubbled in their flasks over the fire. All in all, a homey atmosphere for any curious students of the arcane.

Fifty years later, the Nine Moo Teacup occupied the very same house. The proprietor, Miss Nine Moo, kept the furnishings exactly the way it had been for so many years. She expanded the kitchen to include the coffee and tea bar, with pastries and other munchies baked daily. The wizard's treasure trove of herbal alchemy inspired all sorts of new flavors. Miss Nine Moo, ever the enterprising sort, loved to try out unfamiliar tastes that became quite familiar.

The smell of baked goods complemented the smell of the herbal gardens. Customers from all around flocked to the Nine Moo Teacup. She fed prince and pauper alike. Those who couldn't afford to pay in coin paid in errands or chores, or she steered them to other opportunities for work. After all, one good turn deserved another, and Miss Nine Moo firmly believed that.

She enjoyed her life's work. This was what she meant to do, and she had no intention of giving it up for anything. Nothing could make her leave the Nine Moo Teacup. Nothing.

Of course, you could still make a difference and never move an inch.

Writing Prompt Repost: Someone Rearranged the Furniture

This writing prompt response is from the early days of  my original "The Eighth Shot of Espresso" writing blog on Wordpress. I've reposted it here in the new prose blog. 

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(Writing Prompt will be in bold. From "A Creative Writer's Kit" by Judy Reeves)

Someone Rearranged the Furniture

There was something off about the room, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't a tangible thing, just a general feeling of unease. It made no sense; he had been in this room before.

He circled the room. Bed, chest of drawers, mirror on the wall, an old-fashioned copper tub in the corner behind a privacy screen. A hand-drawn sketch of a woman, stretched out on the bed in an inviting manner. A single window leading out to a small balcony over the street. A closet the size of a breadbox. A threadbare excuse for a carpet under his feet.

No room for an assassin. No hidden wires leading to traps. No crumb of food to attract bugs or invite poison. All in all, a rather boring room, just how he liked it.

Yet the sense of unease lingered, and even increased the longer he stood there. He moved towards the window. A single oil lamp flickered on the mantlepiece. No one was awake at this late hour, even the saloon downstairs had closed and the escorts settled in bed for the night. The only sounds were the occasional creak of bed springs through the walls and his racing heart.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he gave the furnishings another careful look. Then it finally hit him.

Every single piece of furniture in this room had been shifted exactly six inches to the left. He dropped to his hands and knees and saw the dust left on the carpet, and the impression of the bedposts there. The dresser had also been moved in a similar manner. He got back to his feet and walked to the mirror. Now he saw the bare spot on the wall, an oval-shaped patch of pristine paint surrounded by the grime. The picture of the woman was six inches from its previous place, closer to the window.

Why would someone be so petty as to move the furniture six inches from their places? He turned his attention to the copper tub in the corner. Like every other tub in this hellhole, it was firmly bolted to the floor. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw the old rusted fittings in the floor where it had been, and the new fittings, six inches away.

How the hell did someone manage to move everything in the two hours he'd been away from his room? And why? Was this someone's idea of a practical joke? Though moving a heavy copper tub from its old fittings to its new ones was a lot of work for just a prank.

They knew you'd notice. They knew you'd feel something was off, even something as minor as this.

The question became who were they?

He heard the sounds of scratching from behind the closet door. Loud scratching, as if someone or something was trying to get out.

So he took out his shotgun and approached the closet, every nerve tight with tension. He would shoot first and ask questions later.

(To be continued?)

Writing Prompt Repost: June the Juniper

This writing prompt response is from the early days of  my original "The Eighth Shot of Espresso" writing blog on Wordpress. I've reposted it here in the new prose blog. 

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From The Write Brain Workbook by Bonnie Neubauer. Prompt is in bold.)

You are a groundskeeper who talks to all of your plants. You believe talking to them is better than talking to friends about your problems. One tree, a juniper named June, is your favorite. Start with: Can you believe it? She called me again last night..."

"Can you believe it? She called me again last night. At three in the morning. Three! Who the hell is up at three in the morning?! Crying into her whiskey glass and moaning about her lot in life. Another date gone wrong. I swear, she either has to get new friends or she should delete that worthless dating app off her phone.

"Seems that every guy she hooks up with is a loser. They spend the entire time droning about their work, their life, them, them, them. And you smile and nod and hope you don't choke on your shrimp carbonara. At least this time, he paid for the wine. Two bottles' worth. That's a record. Two whole bottles to get through one date. No wonder she was rambling drunk at three in the morning.

"She's on a timeline, she told me. She needs to find a man, get married, have kids. She's not fulfilled until she does. Suddenly everything will be picture perfect and her life will all be roses. If you ask me, she's just scared. Scared of going at it alone. Mama isn't gonna be around forever. Once Mama goes, what will she do? Where will she go? With me? Hell no. I've already made it clear to her that she's not moving in with me. I don't want to support her lazy arse. I got my own life, a good job here with you guys, my own friends. She's burned her bridges with other friends; they've kicked her out so many times. And she ends up calling me at three in the morning to moan about her lot in life. It's so predictable, it's like clockwork.

"What's that, June? Why do I keep indulging her? If I don't, who will? She'll just call up some rando at three in the morning, blubbering about another ruined date. At least I know she's alive and not lying in a ditch somewhere. What's that saying, 'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink'? I can give her all sorts of advice until I'm blue in the face. I can do all I can to help her, but if she won't do her part, there's not much I can do. At that point, I'm just wasting my time. People all say that I got a kind heart, that I still talk to her, at least. Some people tell me that I should be doing more. I should be doing this, should be doing that. How many shoulds can one person do before it's more than enough?

"I gotta have boundaries, you know. Damned if I let her take over my life. Mama tried that, you know. Made hints on whom I should marry, where I should go, where I should live. I told her where to stuff it. Got out when I could to save my sanity. Yeah, I don't have a fancy house or car or earn all sorts of cash to support her lifestyle. She's given up on me. Should've known she'd find another person to mooch. Thing is, blood is blood, and you don't give up on blood. Usually. At least you try, so you can say you tried."

"You choose your friends, but you don't choose your family. At least, June, you don't try to explain the meaning of life to me like I'm an idiot. You don't yell, you don't scream, you don't call me at three in the morning to whine about your lot in life. I give you water, make sure you have lots of sunlight and room to grow, and you grow. You stretch out your branches to the sun. Give to the Earth what you take, all in equal measure. Isn't that how life's supposed to be? Simple as that. I kinda like simple.

"There. All done. Thanks for listening to me rambling again, June. Same time, same place tomorrow? Yeah, sounds good."

Short Story Repost: The Apple Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

This writing prompt response is from the early days of  my original "The Eighth Shot of Espresso" writing blog on Wordpress. I've reposted it here in the new prose blog. 

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Yes, he was a coward, but he wouldn't have put it that way. He always called it 'self preservation'.

When he was young, his father flew into rages at the slightest thing. There was no ice in the freezer when he wanted iced tea. Bureaucracy never moved along at the speed he expected it. His father ranted and raved loudly. He and his mother ducked their heads and waited for the storm to pass. Don't rock the boat. Don't say anything to him; it would make it much worse. Don't make him turn his wrath on you.

As an only child, he bore the brunt of it. As the only son, it fell to him to make his own destiny. He would never take out such selfish rage on those around him. So he put up with it in silence and fumed about it in private. Yet he would never lose control in the face of something so...trivial.

Control was the most important thing, and he would make his mark in the world.

His father was a workaholic, who chose to spend time with his family unless he chose, in his own time and place, and in his own manner. His interests took priority in that way. They watched whatever he wanted on the television. God forbid they ever tried to change the channel while he drowsed in his easy chair. He always knew. The same programs over and over. Police procedurals, westerns, shows that had its heyday fifty or sixty years before. They were his security blankets. Evenings were spent watching these and listening to his lectures on any topic under the sun. He was the utmost authority to his captive audience.

His mother sat on the couch and did her needlework, and occasionally nodded. It didn't surprise anyone when she started to go deaf in one ear...the one pointed at her husband.

He resolved not to be like that, but the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

He took great pride in his work, so much that when he worked from home, it was just like being in the office. No interruptions of any sort would be tolerated. Any niggling details like paperwork, issues at his childrens' schools, medical appointments, and housing maintenance could be directed at his wife. Never mind that she also worked from home...she had the time, and was a convenient substitute for a secretary.

He controlled everything from what they had for dinner (but made sure to ask her first! After all, appearances were necessary! And it soothed his conscience, for she couldn't say that he didn't ask) to what they did during the weekends. "I pay the bills, therefore, I make the rules." As long as he was comfortable with it, and he could pay attention to the details, then it was acceptable. He needed to make sure everything was just right for 'us'. He spoke with the royal 'we' and 'us'. Never mind that she would glare at him whenever he proclaimed this kingly right.

When she spoke, he stepped in to elucidate and clarify what she said, even in the presence of others. "I have a natural tendency to correct you," he said with grin. She never found it funny.

Whenever there was conflict, he did what he always had done. Duck his head and wait for the storm to pass. His wife got the brunt of whatever problem reared its head and was usually the one who took care of the solution. When she accused him of never supporting her, he countered by pointing out that he provided financial support, and that she was better at dealing with people than he was.

"That's not in my skill set," he would say, and that was technically true. He worked with computers and with people who aligned with those interests. When it came to other aspects of real life, not so much. But why learn to deal with it when you have your 'secretary' who could do it for you?

Little by little, she withdrew from him. She stopped watching football on Sundays, even though she was the football fan. After all, the referees didn't know what they were doing, and always made bad calls, and he told her so. She stopped playing certain video games after he jumped on the bandwagon. After all, he knew how to do game mechanics, even when he constantly whined and cursed how the games were making his life a living hell. She even stopped practicing her instruments in his presence, although she was a musician. After all, he took up music too, and loudly talked about his interests.

She began to call out his ignorant takes, his bluster, his intolerance for anything that he wasn't comfortable. His cutting criticism disguised as 'helpful advice'. He didn't understand it...after all, he was trying to help. If he knew more about something, wasn't it a good idea to let someone know about it, just to make sure they didn't do something wrong?

It never occurred to him that perhaps what he said was the wrong kind of information or only his opinion of what was 'correct'. His views were certainly not the views of other people, but they should be.

When his daughter began talking about issues he didn't like, he panicked and told her "When you're not living under my room, you can do whatever the hell you want. While you're here, you live under my rules." She stopped talking to him about those issues altogether. When he asked about how her life was doing, it was just 'fine'. Just the answer at face value was fine with him; there was no need to go any deeper.

At the end of the day, he wondered why children didn't care about their parents when they grew old. Never mind that he rarely spoke to his now, and his wife had to remind him about birthdays and anniversaries.

The apple didn't fall far from the tree. Without anything to support it, it just rots on the ground.

Writing Prompt Repost: The Corpse in the Window

This writing prompt response is from the early days of  my original "The Eighth Shot of Espresso" writing blog on Wordpress. I've reposted it here in the new prose blog. This is done more in verse, but it tells a story.

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Prompt from  “642 Things to Write About” by the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto):
The corpse you saw in the Undertaker's window

She looked almost alive.
Almost.
The false flush of life
in her sallow cheeks.
Eyes closed in
a timeless sleep.
Dark hair set in curly waves
across her shoulders and
hands clasped serenely
over her breast.

She looked almost alive
Almost.
White satin and lace
a black rose in the bodice.
Delicate silk gloves
to the elbow.
Ivory stockings
a garter on her thigh
never thrown.

She looked almost alive
Almost.
Long lashes against
a colorless cheek.
A trusting smile
frozen in time.
Never knowing the betrayal
the lurked behind
the eyes of
her beloved.

She looked almost alive
Almost.
If she could take another breath
and feel love in
her cold, cold heart
Perhaps she could find happiness
within a den
of hungry vipers
whose lives are worth more
than just a sack of coin.

She looked almost alive
Almost.
Displayed in the undertaker's window.
A tragic doll
clothed in beautiful white
Where all who viewed her
pitied love's folly
and the inevitable
loss of
innocence.

Short Story: Bloody Hands

 From: 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writer's Block by M. Kirin

Write about a character as they look at their family sword. This character enjoys wealth and fame, though their family took those by force. What does this character think when they look at that sword, the same that cut the throats of anyone who stood against their family? Does this character regret being born into that bloodline--or have they grown too used to the feeling of blood on their hands?

She went through her training routine every morning, without fail. The sword beckoned to her, called her name like the most intimate of lovers. She stood in front of the training dummy, assumed her solid stance. 

Check your alignment, use your whole body. Power comes from harmony, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Ground yourself and you will not be defeated. She imagined her foe as it crumpled under her steady onslaught. The weak should be culled; the strong should endure. That was the way it should be.

There was no blood on her sword, not today, at least. She almost felt disappointed that the last of the stragglers were cut down weeks ago. The coup, as glorious as it had been, had been far from bloodless. The Darkwoods, true to their name, reclaimed their ancestral home. She remembered how this sword had led them to victory, how her sire had used it to slay their enemies, only to fall to treachery.

She had pried the blade from his cold fingers, slew the traitor in turn and led her family to victory. Even now, the double-edged blade gleamed in the morning light. The cross guard of black enchanted metal ringed with gold, the pommel of tight leather. A greatsword for a great warrior. A symbol of supremacy.

She had held it aloft in triumph at the end of the campaign. It was in her hand as she swore fealty to the new Emperor. It was on her side as she married the love of her life, a champion in his own right. And she knew she would pass it on to her children, and her children's children, for so many generations of Blackwoods to defend the realm. For years, they had languished in the shadows, now they basked in the sun.

She finished her morning workout and regarded her precious weapon. Life was a struggle, with winners and losers. Those were facts. The winners lived, the losers died. As long as she and her loved ones were safe and prospered, that was all that mattered. Sometimes, blood must be spilled, and if her soul was damned for taking the responsibility, so be it.

She felt no regrets. 

Prompt: The Heirloom Cane (Prompt from "400 Story Seeds to Crush Writers Block")

 From 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writers Block by M. Kirin

Prompt: Write about a young character who needs a cane to walk and thus are gifted the cane of one of their late grandparents. What is the history of this cane? Is this the first time it's been passed down? How does this young character feel about the present?Do they find shame in such an antiquated item...or does it inspire them to go on, much like it inspired their ancestors?

He turned it over in his hands. Smooth polished wood, set in a metal sheath that gleamed in the sunlight. He thought he could catch the faintest whiff of fragrance, perhaps teak or sandalwood. The curved handle was inlaid with gold with a copper pattern embedded within it. 

"This was Grandpa's? I don't think I've ever seen him use it before."

His grandmother nodded as she set the cup of tea before him. "This was his formal cane. He only used it for special occasions, like weddings, funerals, and outings to the theatre. You know how he took a bullet to the hip when he was about your age?"

"In the war, wasn't it?"

"Aye, it was." She sat across from him and took her tea cup in her hands. Her watery blue eyes seemed far away, lost in memory. "Imagine him as a young man, forced to use a cane for his daily living. This was a bit before I met him, see, and he was a bit too proud. He tried to get away without a cane for a long as he could. Then his grandfather pulled him aside."

He ran his fingers over the copper pattern in the handle. "What did he say?"

"'Pride goeth a fall, lad, and don't make it literal in your case.'" She chuckled and shook her head. "So he gave him that cane there. Dunno what else he said, but your grandfather took it to heart. He worked as hard as he could, got stronger, more balanced. Eventually, he was able to walk better. Not like he did before the war, mind you, but good enough that he could work again."

He chuckled; he could see Grandpa slowly making his way around the cobblestone streets, up the hill to the pub, over to the docks, with this cane in hand. The MacLeary stubborness, as everyone called it. They either praised it or cursed it, depending on the day or the season.

"You've always reminded me of him, you know. Your father, not so much, but you, well, you inherited more than just the looks."

He grimaced at the mention of his father. That ne'er do well hadn't even bothered to call or visit since his accident. His mother, God bless her dearly departed soul, would turn in her grave if she'd known. Grandma's tone didn't betray any emotion for her wayward son. She might as well have been talking about the weather.

"You think this can help me get back on my feet again?"

"It worked for your Grandpa, and I think it would work for you too. Think of it like a magic staff or something from your books. I know it's fantasy, but there's something about this fancy stick that kicked him in the arse. Not that I think you need it as much as he did, but it can't hurt to have a bit of help now and then."

He grinned. "So he got it from his grandfather, and--"

"--I assumed from his grandpa before him. Before then, I have no clue where it came from. Maybe from the fae folk, for all I know. All I can tell you is that it saved your grandpa's sanity and let him live again after his injury. And so, maybe it can do the same for you. In either case," she sipped her tea and nodded at him, then said, "the worst you can do is mope about and feel sorry for yourself. And if you decide to be a sodden dishrag, I will take this cane use it like a shillelagh over your noggin. Am I clear?"

That got a startled chuckle from him. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Use that wisely and well, and you'll be back to doing what you need to do."

He held it in his hand, tapped it on the floor. Strong and sturdy, just like his grandfather had been, and just as he hoped to be.

Prompt: The Notebook (from "400 Story Seeds to Crush Writer's Block" by M. Kirin

 From 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writer's Block by M. Kirin (now out of print)

Prompt # 221: The Notebook

Write about a character who finds an abandoned notebook. What does this item look like? What exactly is written and drawn in it? What is this character's first reaction to what they find? And, above all, do the contents of the notebook touch their heart?

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He held the notebook in his hands. A simple black cover with no identifying marks. The pages had been glued together on a single edge, but hours in the rain had dissolved the binding. Loose sheets threatened to spill from between the cardboard panels.

An umbrella appeared over his head. "What do you have there, L.T.?"

"Looks like an artist's sketchbook of some kind. It was lying on the bench over there. Seems like whomever it belongs just left it in the rain, Daisy."

Daisy frowned as she peered at it. "If I was an artist, I'd freak out if I lost my favorite sketchbook."

He nodded as he carefully opened it, mindful of the loose pages. The rain smeared some of the intricate drawings within. Thin lines of charcoal, ink washes, watercolor images. He recognized some of the buildings: Chancellor Tower, First Street Bank, Assad's Cafe. Every detail prescribed by a loving hand. Aside from the names of the places and a brief description in block print, there was no clue to the artist themselves.

"An architect, maybe? Or someone who just likes buildings?" Daisy asked. 

"Maybe." He turned to the last page and his eyes widened.

A pair of bright blue eyes stared at him. The soft pastel crayon ran like rivulets down the subject's face, almost like azure tears. Shoulder-length blonde-brown hair to her shoulders, her lips stretched into a smile. She seemed to glow from the page, even as the edges crinkled and warped from the rain.

The caption said: SELF PORTRAIT, in those same block letters.

Daisy looked at him. "You know her, L.T.? You look like you just saw a ghost."

He shook his head; he'd never seen her before in his life. Yet there was something in those eyes, that smile, that touched his heart. The owner of this notebook, someone who obviously had artistic talent and skill, wouldn't have left this precious keepsake out in the rain, not on purpose.

"At least we have a clue to who owns this," he said. "Let's get this notebook back to her. I'm sure she's probably looking for it. I would."

She nodded. "At least it's something other than securing the hundredth crime scene in a row or responding to the millionth complaint."

"Yeah." He didn't admit it to Daisy, but his curiosity was definitely piqued. 

Why "An Eighth Shot of Espresso"?

People ask me, "Why is your poetry blog called "An Eighth Shot of Espresso?" The answer to that is, "It's a long running joke." Eight shots of espresso is a bit much, even for a coffee drinker like myself. According to the FDA, the maximum amount of caffeine a person can safely drink is about 400 milligrams. That's about 4 shots of espresso or 4 cups of coffee a day. So eight would definitely land you in trouble.

So...why eight?

I point out the byline is "Coffee and Creativity on Mom's Third Shift". When I was teaching middle school (7th grade), I drank a lot of coffee from the teacher's lounge. Not great quality, but it kept me going. That was my first shift. Motherhood became my second shift, and my writing became third shift, late at night, when everyone was asleep. Admittedly, my coffee habit was pretty bad during those days. It wasn't until much later that I cut back on it for health reason, but I haven't stopped. I usually limit myself to two or three cups a day. That might still seem like a lot, but it's a lot less that during the time when I would drive an hour to work each day, or take care of toddlers all the time.

My original blog lapsed during the COVID lockdown in 2020. When I decided to revive it, I needed a new title for my poetry and prose blogs. I contemplated my coffee cup, and knew it would probably be connected with my love for caffeine. 

Espresso started with 'e'. All right, that was a start. Then I started playing around with the rhythm and rhyme with words. A title that had a little more zing than just 'Sifa's Writing Blog' or 'My Thoughts on the World'. Then it came to me: An Eighth Shot of Espresso. It had a ring to it, was connected to coffee, and sounded unique. It also relayed the exhaustion I felt on a daily basis, being a mum and a writer, and the precarious balance in between.

So that's how the title of the blog came about. The poetry blog is called an Eighth Shot of Espresso Poetry and this prose/ramble blog is The Coffeehouse. Why two separate ones? The poetry blog came first, and while the early entries have some short snippets of prose, I wanted to separate the two. My writing style for prose is decidedly different than for poetry. The Coffeehouse is a place for discussion, storytelling and a reflection of life's adventures.

There you have it. Pull up a chair, grab a cup of coffee, and relax at Sifa's Coffeehouse. Maybe we can trade a tale or two during your stay.

Cheers,
Sifa