Once again, at J&B and finding time to write on this blog. Despite the amount of people here, it is surprisingly quiet. And the music is beautiful. They just played a version of "hallelujah" that I hadn't heart before and it was so pretty! All of the music is pretty.
And it's still going on! I thought it was over. Small surprises.

Mostly, I've been writing on my honors thesis. I completed a small segment, and am going to post it here to see what everyone thinks. It's about the day after I was robbed and having to go to the police station to identify my attacker. I met with Professor Caswell today and prior to our meeting I was very lost about where to proceed in my story. I had just finished the actual robbery scene, and wasn't sure where to go. So I talked to him about it, and just in talking with him, I was able to see a clear path to take with this next scene. He is a really awesome mentor. We talked about his book a lot today, because I have been reading it to get a better idea of creative non fiction.
Very broadly this is what I took from our conversation: if something you are writing about makes you uncomfortable, write about it anyway. It usually ends up being a better story.
I am not in a state of mind to do our conversation justice, so I am going to end there. This is what I wrote here at J&B tonight. It's a really rough draft, but let me know if you have comments/suggestions/praise.

Two police officers talk lowly in Spanish. I sit in front of an old dell computer, the kind I had when I was ten, and stare blankly at the screen. I try to focus on the twenty mug-shot faces looking back at me, but their voices are distracting. One of them is young, a few years older than me. The other has a beard and a receding hairline. I listen to them, catching words with as much success as catching rain on my tongue. I shake my head and tell myself to be more fair. The sleeping pill I took last night lingers behind my eyes, and my mind is too distracted bursting in bits of memory to focus on another language. I turn back to my twenty faces. I look at each, not wanting to hurry and miss his face, but knowing that each pictures takes my memory further from me. I skip over the black and white men—his skin was the color of a dark walnut wood and the ones shorter than 5’7. He towered over me. On the third page I find a man with the same black eyes and similar facial features. I click the box beside his name and am asked how sure I am. I type in fifty percent. Something about his face feels unfamiliar, so I change my answer to forty. I move onto the next man, and feel doubts about my decision. I don’t want to condemn the wrong man. I have it in my mind that when I see him, I will know. Like a soul mate, I muse and click the next button. Twenty new faces. On the fourth page, I find him. Or at least the closest I come to finding him. I pick a man with the most similar facial features—the same color skin, square face, flat nose, high cheekbones, and black eyes. I choose him with sixty percent accuracy. As I submit the numbers, I wonder how certainly he chose me. How did he know I would have anything of value to take? Was it even those physical things—computer, credit card, phone, he wanted? Money can be replaced easily. Fear takes longer to put to rest.
Seeing him, or someone that could be him, sends new floods of memories through my mind. I close my eyes, willing my mind to stop. Please stop. I’ve replayed it enough. I’ve replayed every detail, every movement at least ten times today and I am tired. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and my cheekbones are red from crying. My mind reaches the point where he takes out the gun, and I bite my lip. Don’t cry, not here. I click the next button. Twenty more faces. I can pick up to four men. I look in the top right corner. Only two hundred more to look through. I don’t find anyone else who looks like him. I thank the two men and leave.