Hunting
You know how people say, “I don’t mean to wax poetic” when they’re being overly verbose and flowery with their language?
If not, you’re about to.
Over the past year, I’ve been writing short nonfiction pieces for Stories by Shiv, but that’s not how I started this practice. My initial inspiration for writing was to cultivate my creativity. Poems and reflections that allowed me to process the world around me.
I never publish those pieces because they feel too personal. Too emotional.
What if people don’t get it?
What if they write off my emotions and me in the process?
Instead I chose to build my credibility — whatever the hell that means — with nonfiction work that I’m also passionate about. As a result, I’ve moved away from prioritizing creativity and replaced it with what I think readers will most value.
While I’ve loved this journey, I’m looking to engage the creative side of my brain again.
For the next month, rather than bi-weekly researched pieces on psychology or society as you usually see in Stories by Shiv, I’ll be sending weekly creative posts. Think of it like an advent calendar or a “12 Days of Christmas” situation. It’s just not daily. Or related to Christmas. But small gifts nonetheless.
With that, here’s a piece I wrote to capture my yearning for the perfect winter snack:
Perhaps it’s a habit from living with the same people for so many years, but we get the same snacks from Trader Joe's every week. They usually satisfy my afternoon craving, but not today.
Vegetable gyoza? Pass.
Lightly salted edamame? Maybe later.
On this bitter, sideways-snowing February day, I am hunting for the perfect afternoon snack. Something delicious. Something that exists beyond the sustenance cage of primal hunger. My desire is deeper. The usual suspects just won’t cut it.
When I reach into the pantry, an uncommon prey catches my eye — graham crackers. My eyes blaze and I pounce to the top shelf where this gem lays hidden. With the first bite, I snap back to reality from my momentary primitive daze.
Precious pieces of the golden treat fall. As they crumble and entangle themselves in my fur the wool of my chunky oatmeal sweater, I'm transported from the desperation of hunting in the jungle that is my pantry to the nostalgia of warm summer nights.
Suddenly I'm 14 years old, feeling the heat of the bonfire on my face and the spark of fireflies enveloping me and my girlfriends as we whisper sworn secrets to each other. The buttery taste of a forgotten childhood lingers on the tip of my tongue.
Xx,
Shiv
Stories by Shiv is part of Wayfinder, a writer collective exploring questions that matter.