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There's something comforting about the silence and stillness that comes with a blanket of snow. In its purest form, not yet muddied by dirty boots or tires, it accentuates the most muted colors. The green roof, the deep red bricks. Somehow, snow transforms the town into a new world. It seems like the most ideal setting for writing and creating and inspiring while nestled in a coffee shop. Since temps have dropped though, I've been reluctant to let my thoughts flow. Hot tea, knit scarves, winter soups and wool socks have become novelty items around here, an equation for idleness. But yet, there's still a yearning inside of me to write all day and all night about anything and everything. All I want is to complete an essay that is genuine and a reflection of me. My problem is that won't happen until I sit down and just write. 

"the essay is particularly cool because it's short and direct and a dagger and a dart rather than an epic or labor or doorstop or something you really are going to get around to next summer when you have time, which you won't" —Brian Doyle, Playfulness: A Note

marveling at my feature article on microbreweries
looking up books by Joan Didion (she's inspired by California too)
envying my dear friend Subha's morning waffle indulgence
finding a new pair of black leggings to replace a well-loved pair
waiting to hear from publications about my internship status
lusting after this list of winter adventures

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