Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

august evenings

long rides home

happy hour sushi

national donut day

farmers market mornings

polka dot shoes

retail store shift work

winery windows

red eye cookies

fleshy orange peaches

victorias secret trips

cake batter pancakes

small venue concerts

giant ball pits

baseball games

date nights

and sunshine

Ìý

this has been my summer so far. i’ve been focusing on living. on loving the hard things. on embracing the stony ground. on finding joy in every moment. girl dates. dance parties. hand-holding in public.

Ìý

tomorrow i leave home on a one-way flight to chicago to get a belated start on college. it’s a new adventure, but i’m hopeful. i don’t know how often i’ll be around on here, but don’t forget about me, okay?

Ìý

-Rachel

Ìý

ps. for those of you who want to follow my life more closely, i update my instagram daily. follow along .

The post appeared first on .

there are mini stories hidden here.

Ìýi. the autumn i turned eighteen we threw a party. it was outside, in the cool of the shortening evening, and the dusk brought friends and flapper skirts and gloves. i’d dreamed about my dress long before i found it. in my imagination it was filmy and soft, but the dresses of reality were all too tight, too short, too heavy. and then, i found it. and it was simple. we spilled punch on our shoes and danced until our hemlines frayed, but this night was perfect. every layer of me felt light, as if little stars had welled up inside me and were slowly leaking out. you only turn eighteen once, so you might as well do it in chiffon.

ii. one winter i got lonely. i was eight hundred miles away from the person i missed the most. so i booked a flight to chicago and crossed clouds and lakes and states to see him. our first night in the city was cold. the kind of cold that reaches up your nose and stings you. my ears were covered by a thick wool hat and i’d stuck my hands in mittens so my raw white fingers could snuggle. i even wore a coat i kept pulled up to my chin, with colors that announced my presence from a mile away and mismatched buttons down the front. it was a warm coat, in scratchy bright wool and pockets big enough to fit his hand in mine. one day a stranger pulled over his car in the middle of the street and rolled down his window to tell me he loved it. chicago was kind to me like that. i never really got to see much of the city, looking back on it. we drove up one night for a play but arrived fifteen minutes late, missing the show entirely and losing twenty five bucks on parking. but we walked up the street and stood close together in the lamplight, the ground slick with snow beneath us. it was an uneventful night but it was the best night and we ate pizza as large as our heads and laughed. and i felt very non-lonely and non-cold in that big white city.

iii. i knew it would be one of the best concerts of my lifetime. fleetwood mac in washington d.c. on halloween night. two hours before we left, i still didn’t have a costume figured out. so i borrowed my mom’s black dress and caked my eyelids in shimmering black powder. i wasn’t sure if i was a pirate or a gypsy or just a crazy teenager with a scarf wrapped around her head, but i felt amazing. i danced in my seat from two hundred feet above the stage and cried until watery black streaks formed on my cheeks and felt completely caught up in the beauty of those moments. songs i’d loved from birth being performed by a fringe-haired blonde in a dusty gold cape and scuffed up boots. a whole stadium of singing and crying people, brought together by this music and this experience.

iv. i don’t remember much from my actual first ever date. maybe because it happened years ago, maybe because that boy made a crack about my outfit. maybe because we don’t speak anymore. and, to be honest, i don’t remember everything from my first real date with tim. maybe because i was jet-lagged and and exhausted from thirty-six hours in an airplane, flying across the north pole. maybe because it was early in the morning and i’d been up all night nursing the butterflies let loose in my stomach. maybe because all the actual memories were just replaced with happiness and all the words were wiped away with feelings. like the feeling of side by side on empty bleachers, shoulders almost-but-not-quite touching and smiles hidden in our cheeks. or the feeling of one hand finding another on the bench outside the movies. not a first first date, but the only first date that counts.

v. do you remember your first vintage dress? mine was from the seventies with the colors of a crayola box. i wore it to my grandpa’s seventieth birthday party, where everyone dressed up like hippies and disco queens and danced the night away. i baked him a cake with seven rainbow layers and wore strappy platform shoes. this was the first piece i owned that had a story before me, and that night it was given a new story of its own.

vi. when in thailand, i made a friend. her name was sera and she had peanut butter skin and curly hair. one night we hopped on a songtaew and rode to the sunday walking bazaar. we ate pork wrapped in sticky rice and japanese sausage and banana nut waffles on a stick. and bugs. we definitely ate bugs, fried to a crisp in boiling oil and sold for ten baht each at a tiny market stall. when the night was over, we bought matching shirts from a lady in a cramped booth. each was a little different, with stripes of ribbon and color and pom-poms, handmade in some village less than a day’s trip away. i cried when she left, a few days later, and her head disappeared past a line of customs in a thai airport. i wore the shirt a few months later, on my last night with another group of friends and cried all over again as i hugged the parents and wrestled with the boys and ate a last supper of fried vegetables and cashew chicken. to me, this shirt represents an open-hearted life. you let people in and you watch people leave, but that doesn’t lessen the way you love them.

vii. this red coat belonged to my great aunt mary, who passed away when i was in high school. my aunt invited us over one night a few winters over to comb through the items left in her wardrobe. there were polyester dresses from the seventies, a black patent handbag from the fifties, and two wool coats from the sixties. i have more vintage items than most women could probably use in a lifetime, but these pieces are more than just clothes in my closet. they hold stories from people who played a part in who i am today. an aunt and uncle who buttoned their coats every friday and made the long drive from baltimore to richmond to pick up their nieces and nephews. dresses worn at christmas parties. handbags carried on vacations. coats donned for funerals. today, two generations later, they’re still being worn to parties and shopping trips and funerals. there’s something beautiful about that.

viii. i bought this gown on my first trip to portland two summers ago. it was hanging on the back rack of a vintage shop and all i saw was a streak of bright red brocade peeking out from behind a white plastic bag. it was unlike anything i’d ever seen—long, straight, stiff, oriental. it was bought on a day when i was happy, warm, belly-laughing, young, and it will always make me smile.

ix. on a steamy day in thailand, i ventured out with friends to a large and overspilling outside marketplace. the dirt beneath us was so hot our ankles sweat. we stopped for smoothies more than once, and cupped our hands over our eyes to protect our browlines from the sun. at a small booth full of beads of every color, i fell in love with a pair of necklaces. one was yellow, with smooth oblong beads and a wooden clasp. the other was made of painted wooden balls in every color of purple and pink. i wanted them both, but i couldn’t waste the cash. so i stood with both in my hand and asked the seller for his prices. he quoted me the yellow necklace but then clasped the hand that held the purple. “for you?� he asked, in broken english. “i give free.� i went home with both.

Ìý*

why do i share these stories now? because i believe the pieces of our life are just as important as the whole. the food we eat is something more than tomatoes and pasta and cheese. the car we drive is something other than just a mode of transportation. and the clothes we put on our body are made of something stronger than fiber and thread. to truly appreciate this life, i believe we have to notice it. notice the buttons and laces and threadbare ball caps and learn to truly love them. love the places they’ve been with you. love the stories they tell.

your life is made up of events and days and moments. and there are things that have lived them with you. our life doesn’t revolve around things. we don’t rely on clothes and leather sofas and hardcover books to make us happy. but there is still something to be said about choosing to find joy in the fact that we do have those things. even when we rip our hemlines and stain our shirts, we’ll still have the memories of these clothes and the lives we led in them.

and that’s something i want to cup in my hands and cherish.

-Rachel

[this post was part of a collaboration with jenny of . she illustrated all these outfits based on photographs i sent her from different events in my life. if you love vintage clothing or art, you should check her out and maybe commision her for a piece! she's a true gem of a woman with the sweetest spirit and i loved the chance to work with her]

The post appeared first on .

There’s something to be said about traveling while you’re young. I don’t know yet how it feels to be in a new place at sixty, or forty-five, or even thirty, but I do know that every trip feels like an adventure when you’re nineteen, and I hope it always feels that way. Travel should always be exciting. The world has so many treasures to offer to those who take the time to find them.

Hannah decided that when she graduated high school this spring, instead of a big party, she wanted a quiet trip down to the Florida Keys to visit our grandpa. So our amazing parents booked flights for Hannah and I, along with one of our best friends Lily, for a week-long trip in the Southernmost town. We didn’t bar-hop or party or mix drinks and oysters, but we did spend long nights under the stars, get lost beyond reason, and stuff our stomachs with tacos and pizza. We acted like kids quickly becoming adults, with all the awkwardness and giggles and wonder of three girls exploring on their own. Strangers were kind to us. Waiters were sentimental. Even our grandpa seemed joy-filled and choked-up to sing in the car with three out-of-tune young women who just couldn’t be happier in the sunshine.

We flooded everyone’s Instagram feeds with our little daily stories, but I couldn’t resist re-sharing the iPhone photos here, on my big public journal, as one last keepsake of our week in the islands.

-Rachel

Ìý

The post appeared first on .

I remember trying to count the number of airports I’d visited by the time I got back from Asia last spring. A quick calculation added up over thirteen airports in four months. Then I started thinking about all the other places I’ve flown over the past nineteen years. New York, Seattle, Portland, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Orlando, Chicago� I must have taken over fifty flights in the past decade. Some of these have been with friends, some with family. But a startling majority of them have been alone. I have spent many dawns rising with the sun, many nights slinking across the coast, and many meals sitting at a gate with a cold piece of pizza in one hand and a boarding pass in another.

But it could never grow old. There is not a time when gliding across the planet at thirty thousand feet stops feeling magical.

You’re in a giant floating ship. Strapped in your seat with your elbow bumped against a smudged window, sharing space with strangers. Babies make noise when their ears pop and there’s a glow, even when the lights are dimmed, from the screens and phones and booklights. And on this fourth or sixteenth or thirty-seventh flight of yours, someone is looking out that window for the first time.

Maybe it’s a little boy, with salty pretzel fingers and a red cranberry juice rim around his lips, pointing at the airport tower shrinking beneath him. Or a seventeen-year-old girl, with her iPhone in hand, filling the camera roll with fifty seven photos and ignoring the book in her hand.

The sky is changing, as always. One moment it’s blue, overwhelming with itsÌýhundreds and hundreds of small, floating white clouds all around. And when the sun hits the clouds they sparkle, and you’re in the middle of an ocean, surrounded by an innumerable amount of islands. The plane becomes a ship, bobbing in the blue.

And some nights the sky is a swirling cotton candy machine. The clouds are pulled thin and sugared with pink around you. This time it’s a wade. With each mile you’re pulled through the color, cradled in the cotton. There’s nothing like an electric bubble gum sky. The jagged tips of mountains form cones and you want to scoop it all in your hands. But your fingers are cold against the window, nothing like the warmth outside. It’s a wade, but it’s a treat and you taste it all inside.

How many shows has the sky put on? When was its opening night and what were the first reviews? When man first stood audience beneath a tree, watching the light turn orange behind the leaves, did he dream of a front-row seat? Grandmothers have grown old rocking their chairs at night while children have stretched and grown and searched and named the stars. Clouds have taken the shapes of bears and tigers. They’ve attended afternoon tea parties from thirty thousand feet and given shade to hikers on blistering days. Boys and girls have fallen asleep under a moonlight canopy on a cool cement ceiling and stars have formed and died and sometimes moved. For millennia, men have explored and fought and changed and conquered, but no one has touched the sky.

Who was the first man to dream of floating in the clouds? Some children imagined they felt like cotton, light and squishy beneath their fingers. They made up stories about men in the moon and floating balls of cheese and chariots pulling the sunset. But, night after night, who stood among them? Who but God enjoyed their show?

After centuries of time and thousands of failed and successful experiments and lives, you’re here tonight. Brushing the clouds, scoping the earth. Two thousand years ago, men fell asleep with their chins facing the stars and right now you’re just beneath them. How many nights did God look down at sleeping man and know you’d be the one to see this? Billions in the grave and you, small person, in the sky.

It’s not just the sun glitter around you. It’s the fact that you are the person who gets to sit here and see this. The sky has been this beautiful since the beginning of time, but for thousands of years humans have missed out on the wonder that is flying in the clouds. You will die just like the others, but you have lived to see so much more of the world. You have felt the pressure of soaring. You have seen cities grow small and large and passed castles in the sky.

Your plane is cramped. A bald man is snoring and the pretzels are making your mouth water and the seat belt light is on. You’ve been through this a thousand times and yet, remember its newness. What you have here is a gift that men have dreamed and built and fought for.

A pink sky is just a sky. It’s a sunset high above us that casts warmth onto our earth but merely covers us for a moment.

But, in a plane, a pink sky is your entire world. An engulfing, sinking, burning experience that few have been allowed to see. Take this piece of the world and treasure it. You are an adventurer. You have found a new world that is yours for just a moment, and it is glittering and blue and pink and wide and high and good.

Enjoy the pink skies. Enjoy the long flights.

Enjoy the wonder that is flying in the clouds.

-Rachel

P.S. I made a little playlist of what I like to listen to while in a plane. Take a listen the next time you’re on a long flight, are feeling a strong urge of wanderlust, or just want a little piece of the magic that flying brings�

The post appeared first on .

When I was younger, I was shocked to find out we had friends who didn’t own a TV. True, our television at the time was a static-y, rabbit-eared box, but we still had PBS Kids and America’s Funniest Home Videos and that’s all that matters, right? Our friends had never seen Cyber Chase, or Dragon Tales, or the video of the the dog singing along to “Happy Birthday�. Quite frankly, they were weird. And they made us feel like we had a world of knowledge under our fingertips (and in our remotes).

Our friends� parents had a very simple reason for not owning a TV: They wanted to be the ones to tell their kids about what was going on in the world. When 9/11 happened, it wasn’t a blowup of videos, chaos, and shouting reporters that broke the news to their stunned little ones that someone had hurt their country. It was the parents, calmly sitting down with stories and tears and prayers. I’m sure it was the same with the VA Tech shooting of 2007, or Boston marathon bombing of 2013, or all the other events that scarred our childhoods with blood and horror. Instead of the news seeping fear and panic into the hearts of their children, these parents wanted to be able to approach their kids with answers from the Bible about all the pain they found in the world.

To this day, I’m still not sure what I think about this family’s approach to television and media. I like the idea of my future kids watching the nightly news with me one day. I hope they are at least fairly knowledgeable about what’s going on, even if I still want to be the one they come to with their questions. But I do find myself wondering every time something blows up in the media, what this family, with their now-teenagers and budding adults, are saying about it.

I remember news stories that rocked and crushed me and the reporters I first saw talking about it. I remember being sent into the other room during 9/11 and hearing Matt Lauer’s voice coming from the living room. I heard about the VA Tech shootings on the radio on my way to dance class and moms with family members on campus were crying when I got there. The Boston marathon bombing reports were streaming live while we were preparing dinner one night, and we all followed the reports while slicing veggies and browning meat. But the only phenomenon I remember discovering and researching myself were the more recent shootings and riots caused by the deaths of several black men (and teens) by white police officers within this past year.

Maybe my dad was out of town or I was too busy to sit in front of the TV these last few months, but almost everything I’ve learned about these shootings and protests have been online. I’ve read so many articles and reports, from witnesses to journalists to bloggers to friends. Everywhere I look on social media seems to be saturated with the pain and hurt these deaths have caused. And it’s made me sad to read about it. I want to exit the websites, to block the notifications, to metaphorically “throw away the TV� on this whole thing. Not because I don’t care, but because I care so much. It makes me so sad to think about the people who have hurt each other. About the lives that have been ended. About the years of prejudice and stifled anger and frustration and shame that have just boiled under the surface and erupted in the final splitting open of the wound.

You’ll find it almost anywhere these days–the worldwide hurt and insistence that yes, it’s true.

Why do we believe that black lives matter?

Because we look at these cities, these homes, these faces–and we see stories. We see report cards and sleepless nights and paychecks and baby cries in hospital rooms and flat tires on the asphalt and the heat and struggle of growing up as a black man or black woman in 21st century America. For the first time, Caucasian Americans are starting to realize that there is no hierarchy of importance in this world. Our lives are tangled and dotted with the same knots and colors and one man’s struggle is as real as the next. Black lives matter because, in the end, they are still lives. Heartbeats and yawns and belly laughs and first kisses and first fights and first victories and first defeats. That’s what makes it a life. And it’s something we all were given, no matter the color of our skin or the shape of our faces.

However, it’s the realization of this very fact that makes #BlackLivesMatter not only a victory, but a tragic defeat. Because while America may have finally woken up and realized that all lives are equally important, we are still carrying out the largest massacre of those lives ever known in history.

My sister and mom both participated in a walk on Saturday to raise awareness of the lives of unborn babies that are being snatched away almost every minute of every day. I was thinking about this blog post in anticipation of their walk, and decided to do a little research. A few sources online informed me that approximately 400 black men were shot and killed by white police officers in 2014. That’s 400 lives that were ended abruptly, in the middle of high school or middle age or somewhere in between. However, approximately 1,200,000 babies are aborted in the US alone each year. That’s 1.2 million future men and women killed before they even reached high school or middle age or the golden years in between. Those babies hadn’t learned to identify as white or black yet There was nothing to make their lives difficult, nothing to give them a reason to hate or be angry at the world. They hadn’t seen their first movie in a theater or survived their first roller coaster ride or tried their first bite of chocolate cake. All those heartbeats and yawns and belly laughs and kisses were still waiting for them. All those things that we claim make a life important. And we didn’t let them experience a single one.

Why do black lives matter? Is it because you wanted that teenage boy to have the opportunity to grow up, to study, to get his high school diploma, to fly in an airplane while the sky turned orange, to find a nice girl and maybe get married? Do you want these things for him that you’ve felt yourself? Does your heart break at the thought of his life ending before it really began? Yeah. Mine does too. Because, at the end of the day, we know it’s true.

But why aren’t reporters talking about the 1.2 million lives that were lost last year, that no one seemed to think mattered? Did you not want them to have a chance to grow up, to study, to get diplomas and wedding rings and mortgages and diapers? Do you not care that they never had their ears pop in an airplane or feel cotton candy dissolve on their tongues? Does your heart not break at the thought of their lives ending before they ever began?

I have no idea how the family with no TV discusses the #BlackLivesMatter movement. But one, day, when I have kids, I’ll tell it to them like this:

When I was a young woman, I lived in a world that was horribly unfair and unkind to so many people. People hated and hurt and sometimes even killed each other. Approximately 400 black men were killed by white police officers the year I turned eighteen. Approximately 1.2 million babies died. They were wiped out in clinics with doctors in clean white coats and no one ever heard their heartbeat or listened to them laugh.

But that world I lived in wasn’t always cruel. There was beauty there. And, even in the death and hurting, there were some who cared. They saw this life as the gift it was, and they cared about the lives of others. Their cheeks were always wet. Their wallets were always empty. There was a daily pouring out. There were people who were willing to shovel out their hearts to protect the hearts of others, and those were the lives that mattered most of all. We all have one life, and we can spend it as we like. One day it will end, whether at the hands of a man, or a car, or a cancer. But those of us who protect the lives of others will always live again. Because even when we die, someone else will live on. Babies will grow up to be teenagers and college grads and young parents and grandparents. More lungs will be filled each day.

-Rachel

Ìý

The post appeared first on .

DON’T YOU WISH WE COULD HANG OUT? Like, actually hang out, with chai lattes and bare toes and pieces of pie over a kitchen table. You could talk about your stories and the ideas you have and the characters that live inside your head. And I could tell you about my books and my experiences and tips I’ve picked up along the way. We’d laugh and probably make Taylor Swift references and get blueberries in our teeth. It’s all good.

Unfortunately, I’ve only had the chance to actually meet one or two blog readers, as this is a fairly big country/world and we don’t have all the time or money in the world. My Dream Factory Workshops have offered incredible opportunities for me to connect with blog readers on a personal level, giving me days to pour into them and immerse them with encouragement and storytelling advice. And while I do have two spots left for the Spring 2015 Workshop, I realize that not everyone can fly out to Virginia and spend a weekend with me. (Sad day)

THAT’S WHY I’VE DECIDED TO OFFER MINI SKYPE SESSIONS, for readers who would still like to have an opportunity to talk to me about writing/storytelling/life, but aren’t able to physically come see me in person.

What I’m offering is simple:

I WANT TO BE ABLE TO TALK, JUST YOU AND ME, WITHOUT DISTRACTIONS, FOR AN HOUR.

I want to hear about your stories and ideas and plans. I want you to ask me your questions, one after another, rambling and messy and spilling out too fast. I want to be able to relate my life to yours and share with you the things I’ve learned and give you just a little taste of what it’s like to be in a workshop. It’s like putting a piece of really great cake on a plate. Obviously, you want to eat the whole thing (who wouldn’t?), but sometimes just a few bites is still good enough.

I’M BASICALLY OFFERING A FEW BITES OF MYSELF TO YOU. Bad metaphor, I know, but that’s the best way I can think of to describe it. I don’t have all day, but I do have one hour, and I want to spend it with you.

Logistically, I’ve been thinking about how to make this happen. Skype seems like the logical portal for this magical soon-to-be-besties conversation to take place. It’s intimate, it’s face-to-face, and it can happen just about anywhere. So by signing up, you would be agreeing to Skype with me for one hourÌýand talk about whatever you want to talk about. I’ll guide the conversation and ask questions/share thoughts, but this is your time to get out everything you’ve been wanting to spill for ages and share it with someone who really cares.

ANOTHER THING THAT IS IMPORTANT IS THAT THESE SKYPE SESSIONS BE AFFORDABLE. Part of the reason why we choose the slice over the cake is so that we can save some money. We know that we won’t get nearly as much goodness, but we’re still excited for the bits we’ll get to chew on and enjoy. So I want these sessions to be something that anyone could afford, whether you’re a middle-schooler saving her allowance dollars or a high school student shelling out a summer paycheck or just a really great kid with really great parents who want to support your writing ventures. Either way, I know that these dollars are important to you, and I want you to get as much as possible for as little as possible. That’s why I decided to settle on $75 for an hour-long conversation. It’s an investment, so you’ll be sure to plan ahead to soak up as much as you can from the conversation, but it’s also an easy thing to save up or splurge on.

I ONLY HAVE LIMITED AVAILABILITY and won’t be able to schedule very many sessions, so please email me at rachelcokerwrites(at)hotmail(dot)com as soon as possible if you’re interested! Put “Skype Sessions� in the subject line and just tell me a little bit about yourself + your availability. I’ll get back to you and we can set something else! Then we can count the days until we get to gush and spill and share. So much can happen in an hour. I’m excited about what things I’ll learn and what people I’ll meet in that time.

Please email me if you’re interested or have any questions! And even if you can’t have a virtual date with me, thanks for reading my blog and always being my supporter. I wish I could give each and every one of you a piece of pie. Seriously.

-Rachel

The post appeared first on .

EVERYONE KNOWS I TAKE A MILLION PHOTOGRAPHS. My friends know this. My sisters know it. Even I find myself feeling sheepish sometimes when I whip out my phone or even camera and ask someone, “Hey, do you mind if I take a picture of you real quick?� Usually people love it, but sometimes it still feels a little awkward and I find myself asking, “Am I just doing this for Instagram? Or for Facebook? Do I only want this photo so I can write up something great about it later and get a ton of likes?�

I was having a conversation with my sister Hannah the other day and she made the comment, “It’s funny how all of us see the same world, but our Instagram feeds show you just how differently we all perceive it.�

That idea made me stop and think. IT’S SO TRUE, ISN’T IT? You have the VSCO-user version of the world, the fashion-blogger version of the world, the crappy-filters-yet-still-sometimes-cute-photos version of the world, and the versions entirely in Russian (or Spanish), that you can’t really understand but still think are really cool. We put so much effort into making our lives fit the version of the world we want to portray, that sometimes we really do find ourselves snapping photos just because they’ll look good on our feeds, or posting things just because we know people will “like� them.

I was walking with another friend the other night who made the comment that if you look at my Instagram feed, my life seems so perfect. It’s only when you read my blog that you realize it’s not. Once again, I stopped and frowned. Am I only taking pictures of beautiful things because I know it’s what will be likeable, not because it’s what will be real?

AM I FILTERING MY WORLD TO APPEAL TO THE MASSES, INSTEAD OF TELLING THE HARD, TRUE STORIES OF MY LIFE?

This morning, I was going through old SD cards of photos I’d never posted or shared anywhere, re-living memories and days and conversations. I found these pictures from a day I spent with my cousin Rena last week. She drove up to visit me from Virginia Beach and we rode into the city. It was warm and sunny and my cheeks and nose turned pink. We found a path in the woods that led to a bridge with kind graffiti scrawled everywhere and we walked across it and took pictures and felt like kids together again. We grew up side by side, and we have all the same memories. So there was something beautiful about being here, in this green place, making new memories together.

I DIDN’T TAKE A MILLION PHOTOS. Maybe just a dozen. And I didn’t go home and edit them all right away either. Most of them just sat there, waiting for the right time and the right filter to be seen.

But as I looked through them today, I wasn’t thinking about the editing style or the composition or the way I was presenting my life to the world through these pictures. Honestly, I didn’t care what anyone thought about their aestheticism. I looked at them and just saw me and Rena and the words she scribbled on the bridge and the poem we found hanging in the trees and the kid we passed running down the path. It was a good day, and now it won’t ever be forgotten. Little pieces of it have been scooped into pixels and preserved just for us, so that we can always look back and remember.

THE WORLD DOESN’T NEED FILTERS. I’m not saying that they’re bad, with their tints and colors and vintage appeal. But what this world needs even more than VSCO is honesty. It needs real, broken, honest stories. These photos aren’t important because they’re pretty. They’re important because they happened. And I think the real thing that makes everyone’s streams different is that, in spite of the fact we live in the same world and see the same things, we really do perceive it differently. We all have different scars and stories. We all feel a moment in a different way. And, at the end of the day, it’s the photos that reflect those differences that deserve the most “likes�. That deserve the most conversation. That deserve the moments that are slowed down and remembered and cherished.

Don’t just take pictures because they’re pretty.

CAPTURE MOMENTS BECAUSE THEY’RE IMPORTANT.

-Rachel

The post appeared first on .

Today has felt long and slow and I’ve been very sleepy and warm. I went and walked in the sun with my friend Clair for a couple hours then came home and climbed into bed and slept. I have some adventures with my cousin planned for tomorrow and lots of work to do tonight, but right now I’m being quiet. Thinking.

Next month marks two years since graduating high school. I remember throwing a big party for one hundred of my closest friends and eating lots of pie and feeling very “on the cusp� about a lot of things. The evening of my party was cool, which was unusual for May in Virginia, and we stayed out until it was very late and the woods were full of fireflies.

I never decided to take a gap year. I definitely never intended to take two. Graduating high school was just another bead in a necklace of events, stringing together my life out of nights and moments and stories. At the time, my life was crazy and I didn’t have time to think about the future or wonder about the things happening in the “now�. I just was. I just did. Things just happened. And somehow two years passed.

I’m putting down a deposit next week for a school I have no idea if I can actually attend this fall. There’s issues of finances and moving and continuing to grow and learn I have to wade through, but right now this just feels right. However, thinking about the change of life seasons and eight hundred mile move makes the gaps of these years seem bigger and more loosely stitched, for some reason. I was always so focused on getting through the now that I couldn’t see the things that were happening inside me.

When I graduated high school I was going through a painful “breakup� with one of my best friends. This girl who I’d known for several years had said things to hurt me, and I’d hurt her back, and we’d both retreated to lick our wounds without ever seeking to help each other. My heart felt stretched and brittle. I was shaken a bit in who I was, in who I wanted to be. There was a boy (of course), but I knew then just like I know now that it wasn’t right. May of 2013 ended with the curtain falling on a messy and disorganized stage. No one was saying their lines right. The scenes were a little disorienting. I guess it was the symbolic sign for a new act, but at the time I just felt tired.

That summer I went to Portland for the first time, and I think that changed my life in a lot of ways. The world stretched a little bit more. I’d traveled before, to Seattle and St. Louis and Cincinnati and New York, but this was my first extended time away from home. For three weeks I slept in Elaini’s basement and ate potato salad and drove through the countryside and licked the ice cream off of cones. We laughed, we shared, we annoyed each other, and we grew even closer together. For the first time, my heart felt really entwined to a place and a time. I associate real, concrete feelings to my memories of that summer. It was, in a word, perfect.

I also met another boy there who felt so much more right. I came home in a bubble, talking to this guy and talking to Elaini and talking to my parents and just feeling so excited and good about life in general. I sent so many happy texts and celebrated my eighteenth birthday in style and grabbed coffee with friends (including Tim, who was a really good “just friend� at the time), and felt grown up and joyful. It didn’t feel like a “Gap Year�. Gaps make me think of holes and pits, and that year felt very full. I was eighteen, I was in “like�, I was successful, and I was content.

Then Asia happened.Ìý

I never intended to go to Thailand. Never expected to go overseas for more than a few weeks. In fact, the missions trip I applied to was a four-week media internship in England and Scotland–both nice, clean, English-speaking places. But God acted like God and I got shipped to South East Asia for four months and my world crumbled around the edges. Things fell through with “in like� boy and I found out he had a girlfriend. I didn’t get along with my new roommate. I became distanced from my family. But I also had adventures. I made new friends. I was pushed away and then pulled closer by my roommate. I fell “in like� with Tim. Things just kind of shifted.

And now, in spring of 2015, my life feels weird all over again. This is the last summer in this season, God willing. Things will change yet again in the fall. I’ll move and make new friends and learn new things and pencil in new chapters in my story, smudged with lead and wet from tears around the corners.

What if things had happened differently? What if I’d stayed home two summers ago and written my third book then? What if Portland guy had kept pursuing and I had kept accepting and my heart was in a different place? What if I’d stayed home that Saturday my computer broke down two Junes ago and never actually talked to Tim? What if he’d never asked for my number? What if I’d gone to England instead of Thailand? What if I’d had a different roommate? What if I came home and everything was wrong? Or what if nothing had ever changed at all?

Here’s the thing about gap years: they’re definitely not full of gaps. They’re stuffed. Your heart gets squished and bruised and stretched and stitched and it learns to pulse out of rhythm. There is no order. No string of events lining up the perfect story or the ideal experience. Sometimes you don’t know what the next step is when your foot’s already in the air. Just one day, one conversation, one phone call, one moment can change everything. And you find yourself thinking, “Wow, if just that one conversation had gone differently, my life might not be like this.� Or “And to think if I had just said no to that one thing, I might be somewhere completely different today.�

I don’t know how the people who don’t believe in a higher power live with this. It’s heavy and wondrous to realize that even these “in between� years are divinely orchestrated right down to the time and place and word.

Do I regret taking a gap year–or two–in between high school and college? No. No, no, no, no, no. Do I regret the late nights, the Skype calls, the airports, the fried rice, the tears, the strain, the waiting? Never.

No matter what I’m doing in my life, I’m definitely not in a gap. My life has no gaps. It has only tiny beads and big beads and oddly shaped in-between beads. Even the waiting period is still a period. It still consists of times and beats and measures.

I don’t write here very often anymore, but I had to share my thoughts on this tonight.

-Rachel

The post appeared first on .

things i shout in my ears

i. your words aren’t good enough

ii. they aren’t strong enough

iii. they aren’t deep enough

iv. (i.e. they don’t matter)

Ìý

things i write on my skin

i. your life isn’t great enough

ii. it also isn’t hard enough

iii. and you don’t have enough adventures

iv. (i.e. you have nothing to share)

Ìý

I write boring things on white screens and I cram too many words together. I pick and re-pick the scabs of my wounds until there’s blood on the page and the story there is gone. I’m too depressing. Or, I’m too upbeat. Days go by and nothing comes out and I huddle in my dry spots and don’t want to share my thoughts. Then the rain comes and they gush out too much, too heavy, too cold.

I have more things to write for me, for you, for us. Give me patience and I’ll share them soon.

-Rachel

The post appeared first on .

I’ve been too busy to blog lately but I felt really guilty about this last night and asked all of you via social media to send me some questions for a quick Q&A post. So thanks for helping me get something together!

*

Do you prefer the cookie part of the Oreo? Or the cream?

The cream, the cream, always the cream. People who don’t lick the cream out first weird me out.

How did you meet your boyfriend?

Awww, I love talking about Tim! Hmm� Well I think I’ll just blog the whole story sometime and save a lot of the details for that, but I will tell you the bare details! We actually met two years ago when his mom hired me to take his senior pictures right before high school graduation. Crazy right? We had a mutual friend who recommended my business. So the first day I met him was kind of awkward because I was taking his pictures the whole time! I still have them. Wanna see one? (I remember thinking he was pretty cute but he apparently didn’t think twice about me)

What was the original inspiration for each of your novels?

Both were inspired by stuff that was going on in my life at the time. I started writing Interrupted shortly after my uncle passed away from a brain tumor and it held a lot of the emotions I was wading through at the time. And I got the idea for Chasing Jupiter after spending time with an autistic boy who went to my church. Both stories are obviously fictional and a lot of the material came from my imagination, but I definitely felt a personal connection to characters in both stories.

Do you have a favorite poet?

For the last few years it’s been Frank O’Hara. Especially poem and one. But I also really love Mary Oliver, Margaret Atwood, and so many other random poets I’ve stumbled across over the years. And I’ll always have a soft spot for Emily Dickinson, of course.

What are some important parts of developing characters in books/stories?

Remembering to keep your characters first is important. Don’t be so focused on the plot that you forget to really search and understand what your characters are going through. Also avoid cliches as much as possible. Don’t let all your characters be so predictable that people lose interest in them. I personally just try to write about real, quirky, interesting people who have honest struggles and victories. I hope that my readers get that from my stories!

How do you go about writing a book?

A chapter at a time? I know that sounds cliched, but that’s honestly the only way it can be done. It’s in the daily grind. The getting up and writing and adding more words each day and week and month. Eventually, if you keep it up, it becomes a book!

What would be your perfect meal? (appetizer, entree, and dessert)

My perfect meal is one that my boyfriend and I love so much we’ve gone and gotten it several times already. Go to Bonefish Grill, order an appetizer of Bang Bang Shrimp and a lobster grilled cheese sandwich (with soup and a little vinaigrette salad). Then go find free chocolate or ice cream from some parents or grandparents who always have a pantry and freezer full of dessert. Voila! The perfect meal!

Have you ever NOT been super cool + awesome?

I was homeschooled. Cool + awesome isn’t a level humanly possible for me to achieve. However, there was definitely a time when my uncoolness was at its optimum level and I leave the below photo for you as proof. (Actually, I leave this whole as proof)

What do you not love?

I don’t love Sherlock or Doctor Who or Marvel or the Hobbit trilogy or The Chronicles of Narnia or flip-flops or roller coasters or a million other things teenage girls are supposed to love. I just don’t get it. Any of it.

Who are some of your favorite authors?

Nicole Krauss, Katherine Paterson, Ernest Hemingway, N. D. Wilson, Ann Voskamp, John Steinbeck, Ray Bradbury�. I have a lot of respect for Shannon Hale too and everything she’s doing to promote female writers. And there are several bloggers who I admire, such as Kristin Morris!

What are a few of your favorite Bible verses?

Galatians 6:14 is a verse I use to sign all my books: “But may it never be that I would boast, except through the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me and I to the world.� It reminds me to never let people praise me for the stuff I’ve done, because all I have and all I am is Christ!

How do you create balances in your life/make time for everything in your schedule?

This is tricky. Right now I’m working two part-time jobs (at a French bakery and a Kate Spade outlet store), mentoring four writing students, writing free-lance for Local Wolves Magazine, processing photos and preparing for photographing two weddings, entering scholarship essay contests to help pay for school next year, and working on Book #3. At the same time. Sometimes I go to sleep around midnight exhausted and entirely worn-out and then wake up at 6:45 the next morning to head to work. It’s tough, honestly, but somehow it’s all getting done. I think the key is to focus each moment on what you are doing in that moment. If you’re writing, be entirely present with your writing. Don’t focus on anything else. If you’re photographing something, be intent on the details before you and not what you have to do when you get home. That’s part of what keeps me from going crazy. Also, my mom is always stressing the importance of having a schedule and while I am the most unorganized person I know, having a loose schedule helps a lot. And being really good about putting things on your calendar so that you don’t forget about them!

What’s your biggest fear?

Probably the dentist. Or that I’ll end up living in a small town all my life and never getting married.

Do you have any habitual things you do right before bed?

Usually I’ve been texting people so I tell them all that I’m going to bed (I go to bed before everyone else apparently). Sometimes I call my boyfriend or he calls me. Then I turn off my phone and usually try to read some poetry before going to sleep, but sometimes I’m so tired I just collapse!

Who were your favorite actors/actresses as a child?

Julie Andrews all the way. Did you know I have her autograph? (Oh wait, I’m suddenly cool now)

What is your favorite way to help your family out?

I feel so guilty answering this since I haven’t really been home much lately and people have been doing my chores, not the other way around! When I am home, I’m often so self-preoccupied that I forget to look to help others and focus instead on the tasks before me. But I think that having an awareness of the things that need to be done is helpful. I often just do the minimum amount of work necessary, and I’d love to get better at noticing what extra chores can be done and doing them without being asked! I’m sure that would make my mom so happy. I also try to cook dinner for her sometimes when I’m free or have an afternoon at home. Once again, I don’t do it often since I’m rarely home before 5, but that’s another thing that I know blesses her a lot!

Can we hear anything about Book #3?

This was the most popular question by far and unfortunately I can’t really answer it yet! I’m not going to give any concrete details about my third book until I sign a contract on it (still writing it right now), but I do have a Pinterest “sneak-peek inspiration� board I made for my readers so they can get a glimpse into the setting and themes! Check it out !

*

Thanks for sending me your questions! Sorry I haven’t been blogging as much lately but I promise I have some posts outlined already about Asia + writing + other things you guys have asked me about or I’ve been wanting to write about. Just give me time to actually write them!

-Rachel

The post appeared first on .