The Life Of A Writer

The Life Of A Writer

This is a short story reflecting on the time I spent in Orvieto, Umbria, and the creativity I found there.

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Walking down the cobblestone street, it was almost as if time stopped. The sun shined brightly, casting shadows against the old buildings. People of all ages walked up and down the road. Their voices carried into the wind and drifted into the air. The town exuded a timeless energy, with the contemporary accessories of the people juxtaposed against the medieval backdrop.

The people weaved in and out of stores, cafés and restaurants, rejoining the bustling streets. There was a sense of wonder, a sense of enchantment that enveloped the town. Its majestic quirks and characteristics were present in every element, every building, every person.

The town was perched on a hill, overlooking the vast Italian countryside. Outside the lively town, the surrounding area was quiet, filled with large country homes and open fields. The green hills seemed to roll on forever, until the fresh green color of the grass met with the pale blue of the sky. It held such simple beauty, a picturesque town with many more hidden elements than those that met the eye.

On the winding, main road, the prominent noises continued long throughout the day. In the late afternoon, the warm sun kissed each person as they carried on their day. Seated at an outdoor café patio table, a young woman sat, passionately pressing her pen into the paper of her notebook. She wore her long auburn hair in a ponytail that rested on her shoulders, her canvas bag perched next to her on the bench. On the table, several notebooks were spread across the surface. There were keys, black sunglasses, and a half empty glass of red wine. The expression on her face was hard to read. She was fixated on her work, but showed equal interest in the world that moved around. Her right hand continued to graciously move her pen across the page. She paused for a moment and looked up.

Her eyes glanced up and down the road, casually making eye contact with people walking by. They smiled at her, and she smiled back. Every stranger that passed held their own story, their own journey. The natural friendliness of each person reflected in the way they carried themselves, the way they interacted with one another. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, inhaling every smell, every sound, every nook and cranny of the old town. With open eyes, she exhaled.

The clock tower began making its usual loud dings, signaling to the town it was five o'clock. The noise temporarily interrupted people's activity as they moved to and from the next locations of their day. The woman at the café squeezed out a few more lines onto her page. She then replaced the cap on her pen, put her things into her bag, and swiftly finished the wine. Standing up, she joined the crowd yet again, camouflaged in the mix of people. She made her way down the road, slowly separating from the group. Her long strides eventually brought her to a small meadow that overlooked the view below the town. She stood, basking in the sun's glow, taking in her new home. She smiled.

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