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In this week’s Dispatches from The Secret Library, Dr Oliver Tearle analyses an early Tennyson poem Who invented ‘free verse’? Walt Whitman (1819-92) often gets the credit, although his decision to write in free verse – unrhymed poetry without a regular metre or rhythm – may have been influenced by […]
It was the early eighties, around the time a group of senior army officers overthrew the democratically elected government, when Austrian lace and aso-oke were trendy and church services were fashion shows – an endless, shameless carnival of women in colourful blouses blended with expensive ichafu which they tied in layers and pleats until the scarves were piled atop their heads like large plants, obstructing the view of everyone seated behind them. Everyone looked forward to Sundays, to going to church. Those who could not afford these processions snuck in very early for the children’s service, because that was the graceful thing to do – to worship with children in their simple clothes of cheap blouses over Nigerian wax, and okrika shoes whose heels had worn out and made koi-koi-koi sounds on the tiled floor.
It was on a Monday after one of those Sundays that Ogadinma walked into Barrister Chima’s office for the first time.
The room was empty. The fan whirled, scattering the papers on the cluttered desk. They floated to the floor, slid under the table, under the chair, by the door and by her feet. She wondered if it would be awkward to walk in uninvited and pick them up. She knocked again, louder this time. ‘Hello!’ she called out, her voice echoing. There was a click of heels. A girl emerged from the connecting door, her blue skirt so short she would not be comfortable if she were to bend over to get the papers. The name tag pinned to her white blouse said she was ‘Amara’.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, her gaze piercing.
‘Your papers,’ Ogadinma pointed at the floor, but Amara wrinkled her nose, ignoring the scattered sheets, arching an eyebrow. ‘I am looking for Barrister Chima,’ Ogadinma said, bringing out the business card her father gave her, holding it up for Amara to see.
‘Come in,’ Amara said, waving her into the waiting room, and only after Ogadinma had gone in did Amara crouch carefully – not bend, because she could never bend without exposing her underwear – to pick up the scattered papers.
When her father described the address, Ogadinma had expected a proper workplace, or at least, a hall split into cubicles. She had never been in a barrister’s office and so did not know what the place would look like. But this was anything but an office. It was a typical two- or three-bedroom flat, the same model many houses around the area replicated. Without being told, she knew that the ‘waiting room’ was originally designed to be a parlour, that the connecting door led to Barrister Chima’s office, which most likely had a master toilet. A small TV, half the size of her family’s Philips black-and-white TV, was locked away in a metal cage knocked into the wall. She resisted the urge to laugh, because who on God’s earth would want anything to do with that toy?
Amara returned but headed straight for the barrister’s office. ‘Barrister Chima will see you after he is done attending to the client inside,’ she said when she re-emerged, an exaggerated air of importance about her.
Ogadinma began to say ‘thank you’, but Amara was already koi-koi-ing away. She looked no more than seventeen or eighteen, perhaps a secondary school leaver like Ogadinma, who was passing time as a receptionist while waiting for a university admission letter.
A short bespectacled man walked in and took the seat opposite. Ogadinma greeted him but the man did not respond. Soon other visitors arrived, some wearing long faces, others tapping their feet impatiently after a few minutes. Ogadinma wondered what cases they were battling, or if they had also come to seek Barrister Chima’s help with things like getting an admission into a university. She opened her bag and brought out her JAMB result: 240. Good enough to get her an admission into the state university. But her father wanted her to study in the east, so she had chosen the University of Nigeria in Nsukka. Nsukka was a place they barely knew: plus, often, the number of students that passed the exam exceeded the capacity a school could admit, so it was customary to go through people who knew powerful staff in a university. Why they needed Barrister Chima’s help.
She folded the test result into her handbag. The room had filled to bursting. Visitors were sitting, standing, hanging by the door. A man came out of Barrister Chima’s office, dragging a walking stick. He adjusted his glasses and made for the reception.
Amara went into the office and returned seconds later. ‘Barrister Chima will see you now,’ she told Ogadinma. Her skirt had ridden higher up her thighs.
The barrister was seated behind his desk, his head bent over a sheaf of paper, the room chilled to freezing point, the shelves cluttered with law books.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Ogadinma said, and stood waiting for the invitation to sit. He lifted his head, a man not much older than her father, but with features so striking it was as though his face was chiselled out of fine wood, his skin the colour of roasted groundnut husk. He waved her over to the only chair across from his desk and held her gaze with eyes that made her forget how to speak, how to move. She became conscious of her outfit, the loose skirt that stopped at her ankles, her cornrows that were old and fuzzy. Her heart was scudding hard.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said again, folding her hands on her lap. She could not hold his gaze, and so she stared at a spot on his chest.
‘How old are you?’ he said.
‘I am seventeen.’
‘You don’t look seventeen at all.’
She waited for him to say how old she looked. He didn’t. Instead he went on to ask questions about her visit: who sent her, who her father was. ‘I have never met him,’ he said, his tone dismissive. ‘I don’t know how he got my card.’
He was speaking too fast. Ogadinma wanted to explain that her father got the contact through a customer who spoke highly of Barrister Chima. But the words were clogged in her throat; he was talking too fast. He was in a haste to send her on her way, or he was orchestrating this to make her miserable. She moved closer to the edge of her chair, her hands held out, and when she spoke, she could barely hear herself.
‘Help me, please. I don’t want to stay at home for one year doing nothing,’ she said, her hands still bunched together. ‘Please, help me, sir.’
He was looking at her, his eyes unblinking. Ogadinma lowered her eyes, dug her fingernails into her palms. There was a knock and then the door opened. Amara looked in, passed a curious glance at her before turning to her boss. ‘Madam Afuecheta is here. I have told her to wait. She is crying,’ she said.
Barrister Chima nodded, and Amara left. When he spoke again, his words were slower. ‘I am going to attend to a desperate client. Will you come back by three, so we can talk about this admission you seek?’
She was bobbing her head even before he was done speaking. ‘Yes, sir, I will come back by three. Thank you so much, sir.’
But he had returned to the sheaf of papers. Her cue to leave. She thanked him again, furiously. When she walked into the hot waiting room, she was so giddy she almost stumbled. She was able to breathe again.
*
Her father wanted to know how the trip went. ‘I phoned my customer and he said he spoke with Barrister Chima this morning, before you left to see him. He said Barrister Chima was eager to meet you. So, how did it go?’
She swallowed her surprise. ‘He has agreed to help me, Papa,’ she told him. She would not share details of the awkward first meeting. ‘He said I should return by three to start the process.’
Her father was ecstatic. Ogadinma counted the seconds until afternoon came. When she walked into Barrister Chima’s office, the place was empty and Amara had kicked off her heels and was walking around in flip-flops which made slap-slap-slap sounds under her feet. Barrister Chima asked her to wait for a minute and then she waited for thirty. Then he emerged from his office, carrying his bag.
‘Come with me,’ he told her, and she followed. He gave her the bag to hold as they went down the flight of stairs. And she held it, happiness fluttering in her heart. This was progress. He was no longer as stuck-up as before. Everything would work out fine.
Outside, he led the way to a Mercedes parked by the side of the road. ‘I am so hungry. Have you eaten yet?’ he asked as he fished for his key in his pocket.
She had snacked on meat pie and Coca-Cola, so she bobbed her head. ‘Yes sir, I have eaten.’
‘Now you will watch me do as you have done. Get in the car,’ he said, laughter in his voice. It unsettled and tickled her. She got into the car. He folded his long frame into the small compartment, revved the engine and turned to her. ‘Choose the music: hip-hop or R&B?’
‘R&B.’
He pulled the car off the pavement, his gaze half on the road and half on her face as he worked the stereo. ‘Who is your favourite?’
‘Diana Ross,’ she said.
‘Great! You have passed your first test.’ He looked like a boy when he laughed. Diana Ross and Lionel Richie’s voices floated into the car. He sang along to ‘Endless Love’. Ogadinma watched him, cautiously. When he glanced at her, still miming to the music, she offered a small smile.
‘Come on! Sing with me, I thought you loved her.’
Music, laughter: the perfect way to spend an afternoon with someone else, someone like Mary, her childhood friend. Mary was wild and fearless. She would definitely sing along with Barrister Chima. But Barrister Chima made Ogadinma uncomfortable and she did not want to sing with him. And so she imagined she was alone in her room, or with a friend, maybe Emeka from her secondary school. Emeka loved Lionel Richie and Marvin Gaye. Ogadinma had always liked Emeka. Back in school, they trekked home together, had lunch together, were almost boyfriend and girlfriend, until that day when he invited her to his home on Aitken Road and she refused to join him. He had been hurt by that rejection. For many days, he would not speak to her or look at her. She still liked him, still longed for the moments they shared together. She shut her eyes and imagined she was in the car with Emeka. And soon her voice, tiny and melodious, pierced the air.
Barrister Chima drove past her street, and all the way to the quiet, residential area of Nomansland, the street on the fringes of the safe haven Sabon Gari provided during the religious riots. She had only been to Nomansland once in her entire life. Barrister Chima rolled the car to a stop in front of a white bungalow. ‘We are home,’ he said, and headed for the gate. He did not stop to see the confusion on her face.
‘I thought we were going to a restaurant,’ she said.
He whipped around. Frowned. ‘I cook my own food,’ he said.
She wanted to ask why he didn’t tell her that he was bringing her to his house, but she didn’t need to. She only looked at him, at the criss-crossed lines crumpling his forehead, each one thickened with tension, and knew that this was what he wanted and she must either abide by his rules or forget about the university. He unlocked the gate and walked inside the compound, and she hurried behind him. He paused for her to catch up, then he threw a hand over her shoulder.
He unlocked the door, ushered her into the dark room and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent lamp flooded light into the parlour, which was cramped with brown leatherette sofas, a glass centre table and a large TV with two antennae sticking out from behind it. He disappeared into a connecting room. She walked over to stare at the TV and spread her hands to measure its width.
He returned, clutching a bottle of Maltex. ‘Do you want me to switch that on for you?’ He set the drink on a side table.
She sat. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She refrained from adding ‘sir’.
He was barefoot, and he had untucked his shirt and folded the cuffs to his elbows. His arms rippled with muscles.
He switched on the TV and stood, gazing, as NTA belted out news. The United States had taken sides with the pro-Jumayyil Christian brigades of the Lebanese Army in the Mountain War, killing any hope of reuniting the Lebanese Christians and the Muslims.
‘Have you been following the US involvement in the Lebanese Civil War?’ His gaze was still on the news.
‘No.’
‘The United States is not helping matters at all. They have just shelled the centres populated by the Druze people and the Shia Muslims, proving everyone’s suspicion all along that they didn’t get involved in the war to broker peace, but to side with the Lebanese Christians! This is not good at all.’ He whipped around, his features tense. ‘Do you know what that means, how this will trigger reprisal attacks against the American properties and citizens in Lebanon? How this can even affect Nigeria? You know how our Muslim neighbours think. Ronald Reagan must step aside and stop pouring more fuel on a burning fire!’
Ogadinma glanced at the screen and back at him. Her palms had grown wet. The last thing in the world she needed was to be in Barrister Chima’s house, to be in the house of a man who was not her father. People would find out. Sabon Gari was such a small place; neighbours always bumped into each other on the streets. They would see her leaving Barrister Chima’s house and they would whisper. The rumour would spread in the neighbourhood. To the church. Into her father’s ears. And she would be in trouble. She rubbed her palms on her skirt.
‘Do you follow world news at all?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I watch the news, but not all the time,’ she said.
‘What course do you want to study at university?’
‘Literature.’
He frowned. ‘Interesting. And how are you going to succeed in commenting on books if you don’t know what is happening in the world? Do you read newspapers?’
She sat straighter, her knees pressed together. Why was he asking all these questions? What had they to do with helping her get admission into the university? ‘I read Punch and Tribune. My father brings them home every day.’
‘And beyond Diana Ross and reading newspapers, what other things do you love to do?’
‘I write.’
‘What do you write?’
‘Stories.’
He arched his brows.
‘I make diary entries. I writes short stories when I am bored. I read a lot of books, too.’
He looked dubious. ‘Who do you read?’
‘Frederick Forsyth. Sydney Sheldon. James Hadley Chase. Chinua Achebe—’
‘Please don’t mention Chinua Achebe. He’s a compulsory read in schools, right? Whether you like him or not.’
‘Yes. But I have read his other books which aren’t on the curriculum. I also read other books, mostly everything in the library on Okonkwo Avenue, all the African Writers Series. Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Ama Ata Aidoo. Bessie Head, Nadine Gordimer.’ She was out of breath. He had made her uncomfortable with his questions, with his gaze, and how he hovered above her. Her heart thudded too fast. She tried to breathe calmly, but she knew he enjoyed making her uncomfortable. It was in the way he smiled, the way he towered over her. He made her feel so small.
‘Does that library still function? The one on Okonkwo Avenue,’ he said.
She swallowed and said, ‘They have closed down now. There are no more libraries around here.’
He regarded her for a minute. ‘I will get you some books when I visit Lagos next week.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled cautiously.
‘I like the way you smile,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
A pause. He urged her with a lift of his brow.
What was he trying to do? As she went to him, her heart pushing painfully against her chest, she thought of what it was he wanted to do. Hug her? Kiss her? What? She glanced fleetingly at the door; there was a small part of her that told her to race to the door, but she didn’t. She wanted to go to school. When she got that admission, she would never speak to this man again. She would never have to visit him ever again. She stood before him, glanced at his face and lowered her eyes immediately.
‘Are you afraid of me?’ He touched her cheek.
Her hands trembled violently. ‘No.’
‘So why are you staring at your feet?’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
He pulled her closer, left his hand to rest against her cheek. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have to be.’ He cupped her face, rubbed the sides of her lips with his fingers. Bent down and pressed his mouth against hers. She steeled herself, pinched her lips shut, but he prodded and they slackened. His erection rubbed against her stomach. She averted her face and he grabbed her buttocks.
‘Come.’ He pulled her through the connecting door. She was walking in a daze. The passageway melted into the room where white light flooded in from the tall windows. She was falling, and he was crushing her on the soft bed, his smell of muted perfume and sweat filling her nose.
‘I have never done this before,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘Then I promise I will go slowly. I won’t hurt you.’ He started to tug at her underwear, her skirt. ‘You have my word.’
There was a moment when a scream came to her throat, but she clamped her lips shut. She would be going to the university. She would get into the best university. She would study Literature, and all of this would no longer matter. She spoke these words to herself, even when her body stretched and a sharp pain travelled swiftly to her waist. He arched above her, his thrusts feverish, his face contorted into an ugly mask. Dollops of sweat from his face and neck spattered on her chest, her breasts. The room was so bright; outside the window the sun shone with passionate intensity. A lone bird flew past, and she thought how wonderful it would be to wing into the sky and fly away, far away from here.
He made a sound, an animal choking. And then he collapsed on her body and rolled off to his side of the bed.
‘Are you crying?’
She swiped at her face. ‘No.’
She sat up. There was blood on the sheet between her legs. She did not even begin to think where this came from, what this meant. She only concentrated on pacing her breathing and blinking fast to hold back her tears. He was looking at the stain too. He inspected his flaccid penis, confusion and satisfaction on his face at the sight of the blotch of blood on the tip.
He pulled her to his chest, held her for a second, left her. ‘Go to the bathroom and wash. I will change the sheets and make us some spaghetti and fish. You eat spaghetti? That’s my favourite food in the whole world.’
She came to hate spaghetti after she had shat a tapeworm when she was seven or eight. The worm was the length and colour of a cooked spaghetti strand.
In the bathroom, she climbed into the white tub and turned on the tap to fill up the red bucket sitting under it. She scooped water and splashed between her legs, then rust-coloured goo slid down her legs and rushed down the drain.
When she returned, Barrister Chima had changed the sheet, and her dress was folded neatly on the bed. He was whistling a tune in the kitchen, banging pots and spoons. She put on her clothes and returned to the parlour. She looked down at the stool before her, where the sweating bottle of Maltex still sat waiting for her. And she knew that this bottle would always trigger sad memories, that she would never ever drink this brand of malt again. She pushed the stool away, further from her line of sight, and then returned her gaze to the TV. But she could no longer hear what was being said because she was busy pushing the memories of today away from her mind, folding them into careful sizes and chucking them into her mental loft, so that even if she ever looked back, she would never again know the horror she had experienced.
He emerged half an hour later with a bowl of spaghetti and fish. They ate, sitting side by side on the sofa, their eyes fixed on the TV.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘I cook everything I eat. These restaurants are all dirty. Two years ago at Tropicana Restaurant, I saw a cockroach in the bowl of vegetable soup they served me. And that did it for me.’ He chewed on a piece of fish. ‘Do you cook?’
‘I cook everything we eat.’
‘Your mother doesn’t help?’
She put her plate down. ‘She left us.’
‘Oh, baby. So sorry.’ He touched her shoulder, her cheek. ‘When did she die?’
‘She is not dead!’ she said curtly. ‘My mother is not dead.’ As if repeating the words would mean keeping her mother alive, wherever she was.
Barrister Chima was staring at her, his brows furrowed with what seemed like irritation.
She looked down at the blue ceramic plate with the gold trimming. She was too scared to look up again. She had behaved badly, had shouted at the man that was supposed to help her. She wished she could take her words back. And when he put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed it, she did not resist. All she did was stare at her plate and listen to his heavy breathing as he rubbed her cheek. Then he lifted her chin to meet his gaze.
‘I am sorry I shouted,’ she said.
‘One day you will tell me about her?’
She lowered her eyes, and put the plate on the table.
‘You didn’t finish your food.’
‘I am okay.’
‘I should have asked the quantity you could finish.’ He picked up her plate and headed to the kitchen.
‘Thank you for the food,’ she said, but he had already left. She grabbed her bag and placed it on her lap. When he returned, he looked at the bag and her face.
‘We haven’t talked about your admission yet.’ He stood by the telephone, lifted the handset, stubbed a finger into the wheel and began to dial a number. He cradled the handset by his neck. ‘So, tell me: what’s your JAMB score?’
‘Two hundred and forty.’
‘That’s a good score. And you chose Literature?’
‘Yes.’
He held a hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘I am calling my brother at the university. He hasn’t picked up the phone yet.’
Fear jumped in her throat. She sat forward, willed the man at the other end to pick up the phone. But Barrister Chima put the phone down.
‘I will call him again at night.’ He returned to her side, kissed her on the cheek. ‘Everything is going to be all right, just like your name – or don’t you think so?’ He kissed her again. ‘Your name is so apt. Ogadinma. Everything is going to be all right.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You want to watch a movie? I just bought this rare VHS player and some tapes. I have really good movies here.’ His cheeks were dotted with pimples that had begun to ripen, the tips filled with pus.
‘I have to go.’ But she wanted to stay so that if his brother at the university called back she could listen to their conversation, and she would respond to his questions if he needed more details about her. The chair sucked her in. The clock on the wall behind the TV chimed. It was five already; her father would be home in an hour. She stood up. ‘I really have to go home. My father will be home by six.’
‘Oh, my poor baby.’ He pulled her on to his lap, her back to him. He groped her breasts. She tried to slide off his lap but he pinned her with the other hand. She began to count; it was easier this way, counting, because she would not have to remember how she felt. She only had to remember how long she had counted. When he was done, she pulled on her clothes. She did not look at him. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
‘Come by the office tomorrow and I will let you know what my brother thinks.’
She nodded, and stepped outside into the sun.
*
Her father had not yet returned when she got home. In the bathroom, she scrubbed herself vigorously, every inch of skin, everywhere Barrister Chima’s hands had touched.
In her room, she brought out her JAMB result and stared at the part that said: first choice: university of nigeria, nsukka.
Only a year ago, she used to sit hunched in the school library that smelled of rotting wood, studying for her final senior secondary school exams. Afterwards, she would trek to her father’s shop twenty minutes away, where she would have a late lunch. On one such occasion she had just settled into her father’s chair and dug into a plate of jollof rice, while her father sat outside chatting with a neighbour, when they heard cries.
At first she did not understand what was happening, until her father rushed in and yelled Hide under the table! as he drew the metal doors shut. A blanket of darkness fell over them. Her father was crouched beside her, panting. They could hear the scuttle of feet outside, the screech of machete on tarred road, the smash of bottles, the piercing cries and chants of rioters. People ran up and down. Someone slammed a metal club against their doors, again and again. Ogadinma peed on herself. Metal warred with metal. The doors did not yield, and he gave up. The air soon grew hot; things had been set on fire. And she was crippled with fear. Had they set the shop on fire? But then the chaos retreated slowly. The rioters carried their mayhem out of hearing range.
Her father opened the doors an hour later. His Peugeot pickup he had parked by the roadside was on fire. The same devastation was strewn all around Burma Road. Shopfronts were smashed in. The air was thick with the smell of something burning, like the familiar smell that hung heavy during Christmas, when her father slaughtered a goat and roasted off its hair and hooves on a tripod. But this was not the smell of a burning goat. She stepped outside. In the middle of the road were the charred remains of a man.
Later, they would learn that the riot started because their Muslim neighbours were angry with the Christians in nearby Fagge who were reconstructing a church situated too close to a mosque.
If the riot had not happened – if the boys had not burned down properties belonging to Christians, including her father – he would not have insisted that she choose a university in the east. She might just have been admitted in the north because that was much easier.
If she hadn’t chosen the eastern university, they might not have needed Barrister Chima’s help.
Months had passed since she filled out the form, and she wanted to reach back and choose another university. She could have chosen the University of Lagos. She would not have crossed paths with Barrister Chima. Things would have been as they used to be. But she had made that choice, and now she could not imagine retaking JAMB. She could not waste away at home for another year.
And so she returned to Barrister Chima the following day. He spoke with someone who requested her details. After he ended the call, he led her to his car again. They went home again, her heart thumping each time. Though disgust rose from her stomach and stained her tongue bitter, and she returned home to wash and scrub her body, she still went back to him again and again.
January came. It was time for the new academic session and students who had gotten admission letters were leaving home. Ogadinma’s name had yet to appear on the admissions list. She continued to submit to Barrister Chima, and at home, she began to sleep too much.
‘Your name will be on the last list,’ he said one Monday afternoon, when she was so tired to the bones that she rested her head on his desk. ‘Are you feeling ill? You look so dull,’ he said, his voice heavy with concern.
‘I think I have malaria.’ She was dizzy.
He glanced at her dubiously and then he got out his wallet, brought out some cash, much more than she had ever received, and folded the notes into her palm. ‘Here, go and take care of yourself,’ he said.
She did not remember how she got home, but she slept all through the evening and until the next morning. When she opened her eyes again, her father was staring down at her, worry wrinkling his brow.
‘We are going to the hospital,’ he said. ‘You don’t look well at all.’
‘But Papa, I have to go to Barrister Chima. The third list will be out today. My name will be on that list.’
He sank down on the space beside her. ‘Your name is not on the list. Barrister Chima told my friend to tell you.’
She sat up. ‘How, Papa?’
‘You didn’t meet the cut-off mark. The university set it at two hundred and fifty. We will try again next year.’
She opened and closed her mouth, and then a whimper left her lips. She held onto her father and wept until her stomach felt as though everything in it had been dug out. Later, he insisted they were going to the hospital still.
‘I am fine, Papa. I am just tired,’ she said, reassuring him and herself: perhaps if she did it convincingly everything would be all right, as it used to be.
It had always been the two of them since her mother left during the Biafran War, when their town fell. Though her father had never told her about it, how he returned from fighting the enemies, worn out and dried up, to learn that her mother had left. Ogadinma had gathered bits and pieces of the retellings of the story, fitting and stitching them together until she constructed a logical narrative: the war had tired her mother; the burden of caring for a constantly hungry baby tired her, and one morning, the day after their town fell to the Nigerian soldiers, she thrust Ogadinma into her mother-in-law’s arms and walked out of the compound. She did not stop walking, not even when her grandmother gave chase, thrusting Ogadinma back into her hands. She did not hold Ogadinma and she did not stop walking.
If her father minded being unmarried all these years, he hadn’t shown it. He didn’t show it when he brought his sister, Aunty Okwy, from the village to live with them in Kano. He didn’t show it those times his mother begged him to take another wife. He didn’t show it when they travelled for Christmas and the wives of the umunna brought their daughters for him to choose from. Instead, he stripped the flat of her mother’s memories. There were no pictures of her mother lying around, nothing for Ogadinma to hold onto as the years went by.
After her father left for his shop, Ogadinma checked the Michelin calendar hanging on her wall. The date was 18 January. She had been so obsessed with getting admission into the university that she had forgotten to check the dates; a month had passed since she last saw her period. Her knees weakened and she collapsed on the floor. Sweat beaded her forehead. From her position, she could see outside her window. A child was standing on the veranda of the opposite flat. Mary’s flat. Mary was holidaying in Benin. Mary would know what to do with a pregnancy. Mary, who taught her how to roll papers into cigarettes, who dug up bugs and squashed them on their nipples when their breasts had yet to bud. The thought of Mary, of Mary’s wildness and bravery, changed something in her, returned strength to her knees.
She stood and walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared at the contents for a minute, before she reached for the limes in a compartment. She cut four of the limes and squeezed them into a cup, then she picked out the seeds and gulped down the juice in one swig. Her teeth rattled. Her stomach churned. She boiled water and drank it hastily, her mouth burning. Tears leaked out of her eyes.
Afterwards, she stepped onto the veranda and made for the stairs. Then she ran up and down the stairs, pausing only to catch her breath. Up and down, she went – ten, fifteen, twenty times. Her knees buckled and she limped to her room and wept.
‘Is anything wrong with your legs? Why are you walking like that?’ her father asked that evening, after she served him dinner, casting a worried glance at her face. ‘You are walking somehow.’
‘I bumped my foot against a stone, Papa. I am fine now.’
He looked at her, unconvinced. ‘Ndo, go and rest. I will wash the plates later.’
In her room, she squeezed more limes into a cup and drank. Her stomach hurt. She balled her hands into fists, raised and brought them hard against her stomach, again and again, until she buckled under intense pain.
That night, she woke frequently to check her underwear for blood spotting, but only found her clean panty lining staring back. She continued the routine: running up and down the stairs, drinking warm water, drinking lime juice. The torture changed nothing. At the end of the month, vomit began to rise to her throat. Sour-smelling spittle filled her mouth. She hated the smell of fried onions; she developed strong aversions. And she slept too much.
One morning, an idea crept into her mind and grew root: she would go to the hospital, the massive three-storey building one street away from their home. She would take care of herself. Wasn’t that what Barrister Chima told her when he gave her money the other time, take care of yourself? She would go to the hospital and she would give them a fake name and address. She would not speak to anyone except the doctor. She counted the money Barrister Chima had given her and stuffed it into her bag.
When she walked into the hall of the hospital, the receptionist, a pinched-faced woman who threw her a suspicious look, gave her a form to fill. Her hand was steady. She wrote down the name Ijeoma Nnedi and gave an address in faraway Brigade area on the outskirts of her suburb. She did not feel nervous; her heart did not thud frantically. She bristled with such confidence that when she took a seat and waited for her turn to see a doctor, she wondered why she had bowed to fear and hadn’t come earlier.
The doctor, a tall fair man in blue jeans, offered her a seat and asked what ailed her.
She stared at the cluttered desk. ‘My period was supposed to be here two months ago. I want it to come out.’
For a moment she feared the doctor would fly into a rage. ‘Have you told anyone this?’ he asked instead. She said no.
The doctor asked if she had had unprotected sex, and how many times. She returned her gaze to his desk, and responded to each question, her mind partly leaving her body, travelling to Barrister Chima’s office, to that first day she walked in and the fan whirled, scattering the papers on the desk. She should have taken that as a sign that things were going bad, that everything would float out of her control. She began to cry. The doctor watched her cry and after she was done, he asked her to lie on the table by the side of the room. She did as she was told, stared at the ceiling as the doctor felt her stomach, pinched her nipples.
When she got down from the table and returned to sit before him, he told her the cost and she handed him all the money Barrister Chima gave her. He shoved the notes into his drawer without counting, and then scribbled down an address where she must meet him by afternoon.
‘We don’t do that in this facility. It is illegal,’ he said. ‘But I want to help you. You are still young, and you just made a mistake.’
She folded the address slip into her handbag. She could finally breathe well.
*
The address was on Enugu Road, four streets from their home. An old woman dozed in front of a TV, her cornrows a dusty white, her neck hanging at an awkward angle. Two small girls, no older than four, chased after each other in the flat, both of them wearing plastic tiaras. They ran past Ogadinma, laughing as they made for a connecting door, and long after the doctor had appeared by the door of an adjacent room and summoned her in, she still heard them giggling.
The doctor led her to a bedroom and told her to take off her clothes. ‘Lie on the bed after you are done,’ he said, and then he left. The girls appeared by the door, watching her remove her underwear, both of them huddled together. They were actually twins, alike in every way. They giggled and fled just as the doctor came in with two women. She wanted to ask if the girls were his children, why they were roaming freely, peeking in to watch her undress.
She climbed on the bed and lay on her back. She drew in a breath when the doctor raised her knees and spread her legs open. She shut her eyes when he probed her with his gloved hands. Seconds slowed to forever. Cold metal slithered into her body, into her womb, churning her stomach. Sharp pain travelled down her back, singed her waist, her knees. She was trembling, sweating. Cries came to her throat. The women held her legs in place as the doctor worked metals in her body, swirling objects, and then forcing in a large syringe. Her waist was on fire, her eyes pressed with tears. The doctor and the women did not look at her face.
‘She has a retroverted uterus,’ he said, and the women bent over to peep. Then they carried on with their activities. If they noticed her discomfort, they did not acknowledge it, not even when the first cries slipped from her lips.
She thought of Barrister Chima, mustering all the hate she could. She thought of all the ways she could hurt him if she had the means, and then she wanted to hit herself for being so stupid.
After the doctor was done, she avoided the women’s eyes as they wiped her clean, even when they slid a Comfit pad between her legs and pulled on her underwear. When she climbed out of the bed, the floor shifted under her feet, but she placed one foot after the other, out of the flat, onto the streets. There were moments when she clenched her stomach, when darkness hovered before her. At home, she climbed into bed and shut her eyes. Her waist burned, and her stomach contracted. She shivered in bed, pulled more sheets to her chest. She did not stop shivering, even by evening, when her father came home and found her in bed, sweating. She said she was menstruating, that the pain was too much. She slipped in and out of consciousness, barely remembering what she said. Her father’s face swam above hers, and she was wondering why he looked so worried and devastated when her eyes drew shut.
She opened her eyes and knew she was not in her bed. This one felt hard. A fan whirled above her, the ceiling was painted white, the walls blue, and the room smelled of Izal and drugs. She sat up. Her father was standing by the door. A nurse walked into the room. Her face bore judgement. Ogadinma knew then that they had found out, that her father had found her out. She lay back in bed and shut her eyes, and wished for the floor to cave in and swallow her.
The above is the first chapter of Ukamaka Olisakwe’s Ogadinma, Or, Everything Will Be All Right, which will be published from The Indigo Press on 10 September.
You’ve heard it before: referrals are “warmer” than a typical lead. They’re the fastest way to grow your new business. Referrals are more receptive to buy and need a shorter sales cycle. We know, we know. Getting clients to refer you is gold.
But how do we encourage referrals in a way that feels natural and non-spammy?
First and foremost: “Do work that warrants being talked about,” says Jessica Manuszak, founder of copywriting studio Verve & Vigour. Nearly all of her clientele comes through referrals. “Asking someone to refer you to their friends is sort of like asking someone to like you. If it doesn’t happen naturally, things can get sleazy and uncomfortable in a hurry.”
Once you’ve established that you are, in fact, doing good work, it’s time to pull from our creative list of ideas that will encourage happy clients to pass along your name.
Before we jump into that list, know that the first step to getting referrals is to ask. In writing this article, it dawned on me, the Queen of Self-Promotion, that while I always ask clients for testimonials, I never ask for referrals.
But those referrals are more important for growth than testimonials on your website. So go through your client roster, write an email and ask them to refer you. If you want that email to actually result in a referral, read on!
Go beyond making it easy for your client to refer you. Actually do the work for them.
I once worked with a coach who I knew my friends would love. When I mentioned this to her, she wrote up her “pitch” for me.
And she didn’t stop there: she also included a gorgeous one-sheeter that explained her services and some copy for social media and a discount code for my friends. All I had to do was forward her email to the right people. I hadn’t thought to share on social media, but since she provided pre-written tweets I figured, why not?
Guess what: She got five new clients from my one email.
To take this approach, write an email to your client as if she’s a potential client. Explain the benefits of your services, how to hire you and any discounts you might offer. Again, all she has to do is forward your email to people who might be a fit. If you have any supporting documents like a sales page, coupon or portfolio, attach it. Include options for sharing on social media if you’re comfortable.
It’s often thought that the best time to ask for a referral is right after your work is complete. In reality, any time the client gives you compliments is a great time to ask for a referral.
Got good feedback halfway through a client project? Now’s the time to respond, “That’s so nice, thank you! Do you know anyone else who needs an ebook written? I’d love to work with another client just like you.”
You might even ask at the beginning of a project, if you can find a way to do it that feels good to you. Clients tend to be excited when you first begin a project, so look for ways to build on that positive energy.
I once suggested a friend get in touch with a branding agency I was working with, even though I’d only had one meeting with them at that point. My excitement about starting the project was infectious, and a few days later my friend hired them too.
While your work should speak for itself, everyone loves a gift! How can you encourage previous clients to do some peddling on your behalf?
You might offer, “I loved writing your sales page. It looks like you’re still going strong, congratulations! I’m back on the freelance circuit and really loved working with you and am keen to find more projects like yours. If you know of any other scuba instructors, please send them my way. For every new client you refer to me, I’ll send you a $50 Amazon gift card.”
For a while, Manuszak of Verve & Vigour offered an affiliate program where anyone could earn credit towards a copywriting package of their choice. Her program was front and center in her website’s navigation, which took pressure off Manuszak to ask individually for referrals.
An affiliate program that’s highlighted on your website might encourage referrals from people you might not have thought to ask.
Incentives can include cash, a small gift, flowers, a charitable donation or a discount on your services. Get creative, or ask clients what sort of reward they would enjoy. I love this tactic in particular because you’re doing double duty: getting advice while planting the idea of referrals.
Even if it’s just a quick email, don’t forget to acknowledge referrals when you get them. I haven’t always been thanked for referring clients, and when that acknowledgement was lacking, it put me off a little.
Be thoughtful in thanking clients who refer you. A gorgeous, personalized card will go a long way towards making that referral happen again and again. Bonus points if you call out what you really love about your new client. “Your referral, Cindy, is such a smart businesswoman. I’m so excited to start running her blog, it’s the perfect combination of my skills, and I have you to thank!”
This goes hand-in-hand with “doing good work,” but I want to separate out the idea of over-delivering because it involves doing work for free.
When I once launched a new service, I wasn’t entirely sure how it should be structured. Someone hired me before I had the chance to iron everything out, so I gave her an incredibly low rate. Once the work was done, she asked how much it would cost to do another project the next week. I did it for free. When she emailed again asking a few follow-up questions, I didn’t do my usual, “that’s another session, so we’ll need to set up a proper phone call.” I spent a ton of time giving her my best advice.
I wasn’t undervaluing my services or trying to underbid the competition; I was practicing my craft while also building up enormous goodwill with my first-ever client.
Afterwards, she gushed over how generous I was with my time, shared my website on social media, referred me to her friends and left a glowing review. While doing extra (free) work can get you in trouble if you do it too often, if you’re just starting out, going above and beyond without haggling over cost is a great way to leave a client glowing and eager to refer you.
If you ask a client for a referral, they might not know anyone who needs your services just this second, and it’s easy to forget your request. The best way to stay top of mind is to keep talking to them.
You might occasionally check in to see how they’re doing or share a helpful article related to their business. Or you might provide advice and resources through a blog, newsletter or social media. If your old clients subscribe, you’ll be top-of-mind any time a service like yours comes up in conversation.
Finally, don’t forget referrals can come from sources besides previous clients. Other writers who can’t take on a project might send clients your way. Or freelancers who don’t cover your niche.
I once had a magical web developer, and we sent each other referrals all the time. Building symbiotic relationships go a long way, and the above tips apply to everyone in your network, not just previous clients.
How do you encourage referrals? Please share your creative tactics in the comments!
This is an updated version of a story that was previously published. We update our posts as often as possible to ensure they’re useful for our readers.
Photo via Travelerpix / Shutterstock
The post How to Ask for Referrals: 7 Creative Tactics Your Clients Will Love appeared first on The Write Life.
When you dream about your writing career, do you picture yourself scribbling in notebooks about your world travels, hoping to combine your wanderlust with your creative flair to earn money for your adventures?
If you have travel stories to tell, it’s time to stop dreaming! Lots of markets are willing to pay for your stories about destinations, tips and your experiences on the road.
Don’t think travel writing is limited to travel-specific magazines or travel websites. Plenty of local and regional publications are actively looking for travel stories, even for destinations right in your own backyard.
Some writers envision travel writing jobs as sharing tales of globetrotting and exploring the ancient artifacts of Greece, or wandering Machu Picchu. But that’s only a small part of travel writing.
Publications are often even more eager to snap up stories about the mountain trails an hour away that make for easy weekend adventures or the nearby metropolitan city that has a new art exhibit and great restaurant scene.
While full-time travel writer jobs can be hard to come by, it’s more common for freelancers to sell travel writing to magazines and other outlets. To get you started, we compiled 36 paying international and domestic travel markets. Click on each title to access submission guidelines or editorial contacts.
So let’s get to it! Here are dozens of publications that provide opportunities for travel writing jobs:
Matador Travel seeks original writing, photo and video contributions “that speak to the adventures, cultures, and identities of people around the world.” It encourages creators to join their Matador Creators Community to find the latest journalist opportunities.
While the website does not list a specific payment, Who Pays Writers reports payments ranging from $0.03 to $0.20 per word.
Want to share your thrilling stories of life on the open road? The site often looks for stories featuring road trips, RVs and adventure. Most of their readers travel the roads of North America and want insightful stories about the continent.
Submit an article or photo essay and earn $200 upon acceptance at the ROVA Magazine website.
Outpost Magazine looks for submissions about travel, adventure and culture. It is looking for longform travel stories, travel guides, and stunning photography from writers anywhere in the world. The publication is Canadian and it has a “Canadian slant.”
Online stories typically range from 800 to 1,500 words, 2,000 to 4,000 for print and features can be up to about 5,000 words; pay varies.
This British travel magazine publishes destination features up to 2,200 words, along with shorter dispatches, travel guides, round-up features and more. Pay is typically £220 (about $275) per 1,000 words, but rates vary.
Write travel articles about destinations, activities and experiences for GoNOMAD, but take note that this website seeks pieces that meet its style and focus.
If you want to write for GoNOMAD, its guidelines say, “No glossy magazine fluff, no standard guidebook descriptions, no promotional hype.” Articles are typically 1,200 to 2,000 words, and a detailed list of locations and topics the publication is seeking is available in its guidelines.
Pay is $25 per article.
While this magazine doesn’t have specific submission guidelines online, Freedom with Writing says this magazine is written 95 percent by freelancers on assignment and pays up to $1 a word. Submit your pitches to submissions@travelandleisure.com.
Arizona travelers rely on this magazine for destination-based ideas, and the publication also encourages travelers to come to Arizona.
Check its guidelines to see when queries (typically on specific locations) are accepted. This period is often in March. Pay varies.
Write about Canada’s people, frontiers, places and issues in this magazine that comes out six times a year. There are no formal guidelines to follow, but you might want to familiarize yourself with their content and tone to get an idea of what they’re looking for.
It buys about 30 features a year and pay varies.
Desert lovers can write all about the North American desert in this publication targeting those who love the natural and cultural history of the region. Wildlife, adventure, history, desert lore, and travel stories are in demand.
Articles with photos receive payment of $50.
RV travelers with stories to tell and wisdom to share might consider submitting to Escapees Magazine, which specializes in RV lifestyle.The publication only accepts fully written articles on spec.
They pay $100 to $200 for feature submissions and $50 to $100 for short fillers.
Penny Hoarder seeks stories about traveling on a budget from Disneyworld to Hawaiian cruises. Most of their readers are “relaxed and excited about earning — and saving — money,” so focus on how your post will help readers save, earn or grow their money.
They pay $75 for a 700 to 900-word article.
Celebrate the wonders of Kansas with this publication offered by Kansas Tourism and partner organizations. Pitch a 400- to 800-word nonfiction story that has the potential for interesting photography and reflects the state positively.
Most readers are locals over the age of 50. Payment varies.
The travel section of the Los Angeles Times looks for pieces with a strong visual component. Trips must be taken in the previous two years and writers must follow specific ethical guidelines, including not receiving comped travel.
Print stories vary from $200 to $750; online-only stories generally pay $500; Weekend Escapes pay $200, plus additional money for original photos.
This publication for RV enthusiasts wants travel stories covering all aspects of the RV lifestyle, including travel destinations, activities and events and more.
It pays up to $900 for technical manuscripts with photos, and less for shorter pieces.
Write about Oregon’s stunning coastal region and tell stories about everything from day-long driving tours to restaurant features and historical sites.
Payment ranges from $100 to $650 depending on story type and word count.
A travel magazine for people for color, Pathfinders Travel looks for fresh ideas and stories about travel and the travel industry.
Stories typically pay $150.
Road and Travel specializes in automotive, travel and personal safety articles, including articles that appeal to female business travelers. Travel articles should relate to hotels and resorts, spas, airlines and airline rules, bed & breakfasts, destination reviews, places to go and things to do and much more.
The magazine pays up to $100 per article.
This magazine focuses on 13 Western states and wants “take action” travel ideas as well as destinations that offer a variety of experiences and “soft adventures.”
Pay varies.
This publication accepts stories about the RV lifestyle, from travel destinations to outdoor recreation. Payment ranges from $100 for a small piece to $700 for a technical feature with photos.
This publication for people who live abroad is looking for a variety of pieces about working, living and studying abroad, as well as cultural and culinary travel. Heads up: They’re currently primarily seeking stories about online learning to teach English as a Foreign Language (TEFL).
Pay is typically $75 to $150 for a 1,250-word article for the web.
World Nomads looks for travel articles that fall under these categories: love, fear, discovery, connection and transformation. Pitch a personal, authentic story about a life-changing journey or experience.
They pay 50 cents per word for stories between 600 to 800 words. Payment is made after publication.
This monthly in-flight magazine for Alaska Airlines seeks business, travel, technology and personality articles, among other topics.
Rates range from $150 to $700 depending on the topic, length and treatment of an article.
This airline’s Canadian lifestyle-travel publication wants stories ranging from insider tips and service-oriented advice to local cuisine and features.
Payment varies.
The American Automobile Association publishes Via Magazine, which focuses on auto travel out West.
Payment varies and you can request guidelines by emailing viamail@viamagazine.com.
This magazine covers North American destinations. Pitches must cover foot-based travel, wilderness or backcountry experiences and advice.
A feature story’s word count varies from 1,500 to 5,000 words, although there are shorter assignments available from 100 to 1,200 words. They accept pitches via email and require a signed contract which specifies the payment amount and payment terms.
Pay varies, but Who Pays Writers reports rates up to 50 cents per word.
Showcase New Mexico’s rich environment and culture through this publication of the New Mexico Tourism Department. One-third of readers live in the state and the out-of-state readers typically visit twice a year or so. The magazine looks for a lively editorial mix, with articles that show readers things they can do in New Mexico.
Pay is typically 35 to 40 cents per word.
Lonely Planet is an award-winning website that gives travelers the tools they need to plan their next trip such as in-depth information on destinations, things to do and travel advice. They are looking for freelance contributors who want to write digital content, travel news and guidebooks.
Rates vary, but Who Pays Writers reports a rate of 30 cents per word.
Texas’ official travel magazine reaches 500,000 readers in 54 countries each month. It is looking for pieces featuring “scenery, history, small towns, and out-of-the-way places.”
Pays 50 cents per word.
Common Ground Magazine’s readers are from Western Canada. They accept articles about the environment, health, wellness, transformational travel and personal growth.
Submissions usually range from 600 to 1,500 words are accepted, but they can accept articles up to 2,500 words. Rates are 10 cents per word.
This website and monthly magazine is a comprehensive resource that helps readers find their dream retirement overseas. It wants stories from expats and anyone who can inform their readers about ways to stretch their dollars and simplify their lives.
Pay is up to $150 for website stories; print stories pay $225 for 900 words and $350 for 1,600 words, plus $50 per photo; 600-word daily postcards pay $100.
With 10 issues published each year, Coastal Living features stories about travel destinations, life on the water, architecture and activities along the Atlantic, Pacific and Gulf shores of North America.
Pay varies and finder’s fees are paid when and where applicable.
Journey is AAA Washington’s award-winning magazine featuring “inspiring stories on travel, technology, traffic safety, insurance and member benefits.”
Who Pays Writers reports a rate of 30 cents per word, but this pub welcomes you to pitch your own pay rate along with your submission.
This magazine isn’t interested in a taco that has the most buzz — but it definitely wants to know why it has the most buzz. Pitch stories with strong angles about travel, food, culture and people for an American and Latin American audience.
While pay is confirmed, no specific rates are provided in the guidelines.
Freelance submissions are accepted each quarterly issue, though editors are particularly looking for travel pieces in the form of a guide, personal travel experience or reflection of how travel affects our thoughts and who we are.
Pay is $30 per article up to 1,500 words.
Note: Odyssa Magazine is taking a publishing hiatus through Summer 2020 due to COVD-19 and will return in the fall with fresh, new content.
To get the green light, write and pitch a story about the adventures, cultures and amazing experiences of road trips in Australia, New Zealand, USA and Canada. Emphasis is put on experiences in rented campervans and motorhomes, but a journey on the open road is what matters most.
Standard payment is a link to your site and $50 depending on article type and length.
Cruising World welcomes author inquiries and unsolicited manuscripts at all times, but make sure to include photos with your submission. Feature-length articles shouldn’t exceed 2,000 words, and non-features (technical articles and general interest) are capped at 1,200 words.
Payment varies depending on the type of article: $25 to $200 for short, newsworthy items and $300 to $1,000 for technical and feature articles.
The original version of this story was written by Kristen Pope. We updated the post so it’s more useful for our readers.
Photo via natalia_maroz/ Shutterstock
The post 36 Travel Magazines and Websites That Pay Freelance Writers appeared first on The Write Life.
I turned the manuscript for my first book over to my editor at the end of February after a seven-week whirlwind of researching and writing. I joked that I would need to dedicate the book to the four coffee shops I rotated through on nights and weekends when I was desperate for a change of scenery after doing my full-time writing job from home each day.
Just a few weeks later, governments started issuing stay-at-home orders as the COVID-19 pandemic spread across the United States. Local businesses — including the coffee shops where I spent much of my disposable income with pleasure — closed their doors without knowing when they’d be able to serve customers again.
I can’t begin to imagine how my writing process would have differed if I had worked on my book during those quarantine weeks. So much of the regular activity that takes place at coffee shops had come to feel integral to my writing routine: Getting up to pay for another cup of something hot every hour or two so I wouldn’t feel bad for lingering. Eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations. People watching. Dog watching! Gathering up all my items each time I needed to use the restroom, or asking another regular to watch my stuff.
Maybe you feel the same way. Actually, I know a lot of you feel the same way, because you chimed into the conversation in our Facebook group about how you’re faring without your favorite writing hangouts.
Perhaps you were a regular at your favorite coffee shop and made a habit out of writing in the same spot with the same perfectly made beverage each time you visited. Or maybe, now that you’ve spent a large part of this year at home, you’re just desperate for a writing experience that feels different.
Adjusting to our new normal isn’t easy. As you figure out what works best for you, here are seven tips for replicating the things you love about writing at coffee shops.
If what you miss most about coffee-shop writing sessions is the community, it’s time to team up with other writers for virtual writing dates.
No need be formal: Simply set a time and date, and make sure you’re logging on to the same video conferencing platform. Take a few minutes to catch up on life, share what you’re working on, then dive in—for 30 minutes, 45, or any limit you choose. Make sure to mute yourselves during your work session so the other person’s typing or snacking doesn’t distract you.
Share your progress at the end and schedule your next session. Platforms like Zoom and Google Hangouts make it easy to get together as a group if you want to add more than one participant to your virtual table.
Don’t have a robust network of writing pals to invite? You can find some virtual writing buddies in our Facebook group. Or maximize your productivity by working with a stranger on the FocusMate platform. You can participate in three 50-minute virtual coworking sessions per week for free.
Sure, you’ve got your go-to playlists for every occasion. But no matter what song is on at your favorite coffee shop, there’s always that hum of activity layered on top of it, from conversations to coffee grinders. Replicate the feel of sitting in a bustling coffee shop while at home by adding the appropriate ambiance.
Try one of these websites that offer cafe sounds:
Each one has a free edition, and some have mobile or desktop apps you can install if you’re trying your best to reduce your number of open browser tabs.
Many of you noted in our Facebook discussion that you rely on these tools to get in the writing zone. Just keep in mind that if you’re writing at home with your family or roommates around, you may need to employ a pair of noise-canceling headphones to truly transport yourself to your imaginary coffee shop.
Miss your usual coffee-shop treats like flavored drinks and warm pastries? Recreate some of that magic at home and treat yourself while you write.
No, you don’t have to charge yourself five dollars every hour you sit at your kitchen table. Mimic your coffee-shop favorites at home by picking up a bottle of flavored syrup, your favorite dairy or non-dairy creamer or a new-to-you tea blend. You may not instantly become a latte-art expert, but you can pick up a battery powered milk frother wand for about $15. You might even be able to order or pick up a bag of coffee roasted by a local shop.
Need a snack? Pick up your preferred pastry from a local bakery or your grocery store’s bakery department. You can probably freeze your treats and pop one in the microwave for a few seconds when you’re ready to sit down and write. Why not have a sweet reward while you’re doing the work?
Half the reason you head to the coffee shop to write is for a change of pace, right? You can’t spend another moment sitting at your desk or parked at the same table where you eat all your meals.
Carve out space in your home that’s dedicated to writing. Not all the stuff on your to-do list—just your writing. Even a couple of cozy pillows piled up in a corner of your living room can be more inviting than your desk chair. Or stack your writing-time must-haves like your notebook, tablet or reference books by your favorite chair.
The space you choose doesn’t matter as much as the effort you put in to make it yours. Put a little sign up that says “Writing in progress! Do not disturb!” once you’ve made your coffee or tea and settled in.
Why not take your writing outside if the weather is right? Set up at your local park with a blanket and lawn chair, or find space on a bench or at a table.
If you like to type but don’t want to deal with glare on your laptop, set up a shade for your computer—yes, we’re serious. It’s worth it for the people-watching, fresh air and ambient noise that will keep you focused on your work.
It’s true that many cafes and coffee shops that have started to reopen haven’t been able to offer indoor seating yet. But you might be surprised at what your favorite coffee shop has cooked up to allow you to linger safely.
I recently visited a coffee shop that featured a walk-up window for ordering (through Plexiglass, of course), a separate area for picking up your order and another separate area with outdoor seating designed for social distancing. Imagine a picnic table that’s sliced in half so no one can sit across from you. Last year, it would have seemed weird. Now? It’s the perfect spot to sit a spell.
Of course, follow the rules in your town, as well as the rules at the coffee shop. But if you’re really craving that cafe scene, a bench outside might help you satisfy your social and caffeine cravings all at once.
Is your favorite part of writing at the coffee shop that it’s a space outside your home, away from distractions like laundry and family members? Then it might be time to get out of the house for a while.
With travel still at a near standstill, hotels want to fill their empty rooms. And they’re getting creative to do it by turning some of their rooms into workspaces.
You can book an upscale hotel room for up to 12 hours for a price that starts at about $110 (but can certainly go up from there, depending on the location). Some reservations come with a credit to use for room service or a discount if you want to spend the night. Coffee? That’s included too, naturally—your in-room coffee maker will be ready and waiting.
Check boutique hotels in your town for workspace offers, or check out Hotels by Day, which offers daytime reservations at major chain hotels for about 50% of the usual rate. Bonus: Book one with a pool and you can take a well-deserved afternoon break.
Remember that it worked for Maya Angelou, who used to reserve a hotel room for months at a time and wrote in her room for a few hours a day. That may inspire you to schedule a writing day in a room of your own soon.
Have any other suggestions for recreating the coffee shop experience from home? Let us know in the comments below.
Photo via LightField Studios / Shutterstock
The post 7 Ways Writers Can Recreate the Coffee Shop Experience From Home appeared first on The Write Life.
Empires and imperialism have been popular themes for poets over the centuries. The tone has often been elegiac: the impermanence of empires, their inevitably decay, and the moral and political problems the very idea of colonialism and imperialism suggest, are all frequent themes of poems about empire. Here’s our pick […]
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