Nicole Sharp


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Carrying things…

Was talking to a junior in high school who had an assignment for English class. After reading the first short story from The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, the teacher wanted the class to write a two-page paper about the things they themselves carry. They could be physical things or metaphorical things.

After reading the papers, the teacher commented that he thought the class would have more fun with the assignment. He mused that he thought the kids would talk about more physical items, instead, there was a lot of emotional and rather serious topics brought up.

I’m not sure if that is a sign of our times, but if I had talked to my seventeen-year-old self and made her write that paper, I know she was carrying the weight of the world. So it would have been emotionally driven in ‘my time’ as well.

Of course, being a writer, I started thinking about that idea and the book. I remember reading the first chapter of Mr. O’Brien’s book. I was in college and that opening chapter blew my mind. Tim O’Brien’s writing was mind-blowing. And beautiful and horrible and lovely. (I found the first chapter here if you want to check it out.)

All of those thoughts lead to my present day self. What do I carry? Without a filter, if I had to dump it all out and write about it right now, at this very moment… Continue reading

Two Roads…

In seventh grade we had to memorize the poem “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

and sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler long I stood

and looked down one as far as I could

to where it bent in the undergrowth.

After we had the poem memorized, we then had to stand in front of the class and spout the whole thing. Then we were graded. I remember sitting there and as my fellow classmates might have been embarrassed and shy about standing in front of everyone, no one was paying attention to them. We are all mouthing the lines along with them, grateful for the extra practice. Continue reading

My sister lives in Italy…

At the ripe age of 44, I have trouble recalling some of my youthful motivations. Why did I want to be an astronaut? Why did I love Raggedy Ann and Holly Hobbie so? What did I ever see in that weirdly lanky kid in seventh grade that I had a crush on? (He must have had a great personality.)

I also have been wondering when my deep rooted love for Italy started. Was it ingrained in me? Italy was at the forefront of who we were, my family. Italy was where we came from. We had Italian blood running through our veins!

Perhaps it was the unattainable idea that was appealing to me in my youth. As an awkward, insecure teenage girl, Italy was far away and romantic and therefore, full of promise of the unknown.

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The breath of a memory…

It was Thanksgiving, the end of November. I was twenty-eight or twenty-nine. I went back to the place where my life began. A visit to the south. Georgia to be exact. Two aunts, an uncle and my grandmother still lived there. A handful of cousins as well. So I went back to visit.

The crisp fall weather was in the air. Sweatshirt weather to be sure. The barometer fell during my visit and the rains came and the freezing and the ice storms.

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Eating the moment

So I’m in the midst of another existential crisis of self-worth. Of course, I do believe some don’t get that fancy with the wording and refer to this as “life”. But then, I’m flowery, dammit.

I’m filling out a grant application and I have everything done. I’ve picked out the allotted ten pages that best define my work as a writer. I’ve got the i’s dotted and t’s crossed. But there is one last, teneey, tiny thing that I need to do. Answer one question in 1000 characters.

Here’s the question:

Who are you as an artist? What inspires you?

Insert existential crisis here.

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Resolute Writer…

Writer resolution 2018


Write without apology

Write without worry

Write for the sake of clicking keys on the keyboard.

Write to hear the echo of a pen scratching on lined paper.

Write because it slows down the moment.

Write to capture a few good words in a butterfly net made of a blank screen and a blinking cursor.

Write to breathe.

Write to escape.

Write to find yourself.

Write to lose yourself.

Write to delve deep

Write to skim the surface.


And write…



Avast, me hearties…

I’ve been dreaming of ships and stars again. When I have time to dream that is. The dog or the kid wake me up almost every night. Somewhere between 2am and 4 and there seems to be a silent agreement between the two of them as to who gets to wake me up.

I’m not fond of waking up in the middle of the night, but this is just a phase, it will soon end and be replaced by another ‘thing’ that happens every day for a few months. For now, it would seem, this is my sleep schedule.

It’s not all bad.

Sometimes, in my exhausted wakening’s, the ideas of ships and stars linger and I slip into a sweet moment when my tiredness is put on hold and words dance through the veil and I write some fanciful, mindless ramblings down in my notebook in the darkness. Continue reading

A table for the end of the world…

With Thanksgiving in the air, I am given to reminiscing about some of my favorite meals. I don’t recall most of them,  not the food exactly and sometimes I’m not sure about the company, but what has remained are the feelings. Feelings from those meals have embedded themselves into my soul.  You see, I’ve gotten rather sentimental about the kitchen table over the years. Ever since the first time it dawned on me, life happens at the kitchen table.

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write words for a morning fall…


Write stories

Write books

Write nonsense

Write poetry.

Write songs

Write sage-full wisdom

Write winsome crap

Write blogs.

Write bullshit

Write heartfelt letters

Write mindless twitterings

Write it on pads of paper

Write it on cement in chalk

Write it in bathroom stalls.

Write it in library of congress-ed books

Write it in the sky with invisible ink

Write it in the hearts of my best friends

Write with indelible ink on my gravestone

Write using blue keys on a detachable keyboard.



And love.

And laugh.

And sing.

And dance

And help



And write dreary, dreamy, desperate odes

And witty, funny, only for friend reads

but don’t write of critics and publishers and agents and…

And get rid of the excess

And shake off bullshit

And don’t forget the muses (even if they are wrinkled and walking with canes).

and Write.

Write on the stars, in the core of the earth, in red dirt

Write in the water

Write only what I will read

Write only what I understand

Write for no one

Write from my soul, from my toes, from my heart

Write ridiculous things

Write insanity

Write pop cultue

Write til I ache

Write til I’m empy

Write when I’m empty

Write when I ache

Write when I can’t

Write when I have to

Write when I want to

And love

And laugh

And forgive

And forget

And move



And write.

Sunday morning thinking…

I’ve been listening a lot to Patton Oswalt lately. He cracks me up and I need the laughter.

He has this bit about how he knows he’s gotten old because he doesn’t hate any music any more. He said, there is music he likes and then there is music he just doesn’t listen to. And that’s where it ends. Then he goes on to say that when he was younger, there was music that he ‘hated’. HATED. He would go on wild rants and raise his blood pressure and talk about who’s selling out and who’s honing their craft and who is bullshit and who’s a genius. Backing up all his claims, of course, with his wonderful Oswalt perceptions.

I was thinking about that this morning and of course one thought began to flow into another. The new whirl of thoughts drifted to my time spent in Colorado. It’s today’s weather that brings on these new thoughts. It’s a cool gray morning, with slow, low clouds. A lot of the trees in the neighborhood have given up their harvest of leaves, others are still working on losing them. I see the light dusting of snow on the mountains beyond my window. Continue reading

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