Prewitt wins Architecture of Home writing contest with “Home is where the Art Is”

Lindsey Prewitt has won the library's Architecture of Home writing contest in the Open category with her piece "Home is where the Art Is." We related to this stage-of-growth snapshot of a moment in time, a home composed of young idealism, companionship, and camaraderie.

 

Of herself, she writes:

 

I graduated from the University of Missouri for undergrad before earning my master’s in Curriculum and Instruction. I went on to teach both English literature and creative writing at a public high school in Kansas City. I enjoy traveling and lived in London for a period, but now enjoy the chaos of life with three children here in Kansas. You can find me on Instagram @lindseyprewittwrites or my website www.lindseyprewitt.com. When I’m not working on my first novel, I’m watching romcoms with my cat. She’s a hopeless romantic.

 

Our contest prompt:

Home Is Where the Art Is

We were the proverbial band of misfits. We lived on ramen, tea, and alcohol when we could afford it. Which was only every other Friday when our paychecks pinged into our back accounts ready to evaporate.

We were artists first, humans second, and occasionally productive members of society—when we weren’t planning anarchy or painting our nails black. We didn’t want to plant trees and change the world. We wanted to burn bridges, graffiti minds, and shave beards from the men who abused the privilege of facial hair.

I can’t remember whose name the apartment was in. Not mine. My job was to pay the water bill, make dinner on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and ensure the cat never ran out of food. It was a hefty job considering the cat weighed nearly thirty pounds. But we saved money in vet bills and shots because microchipping cats was domineering, and anyone who participated must be part of the problem.

The extra money bought us paint brushes made with real horsehair, a second-hand easel, and enough two-dollar notebooks that the Ashleys didn’t have to share sheets of paper anymore. Their novels were more about lists and character traits than plots or stakes, but they continued to calculate their word count like it was algebra.

Sara, Ashley, Anna, Malorie, and Other Ashley. Of course, we could have come up with a better name, but Other Ashley came second and last names were too impersonal, so she was ‘Other.’ She liked it. She’d never been an other before. I’ll admit, I was jealous of the ‘Other’ at times. She was the only one who held a title in the house, besides the cat. She was Ambassador Sassidor. Sassy for short.

The rope rug smelled like pee because of her. I guess that’s why you don’t let a cat you find in a dumpster move in without a security deposit. She didn’t pee on the denim couch, though. It’s lucky because we soon learned denim shows every spot of moisture, and for girls who were going to take over the world, we were surprisingly moist.

That’s a word Ashley banned from usage after her chaotic poem about female rage and tea cozies that someone turned into a horrible metaphor for other female issues.

Thursday nights we ate beignets from Café Dumonde on our balcony and tried to smoke cigarettes, but no one except Anna could make it through a whole one. Sara would complain about it being too hot and muggy while drinking a cup of chicory coffee. And we’d clock the moon’s phase and make up horoscopes based on astrology signs that no one actually knew anything about.

Malorie tried to learn tarot cards and would practice giving us readings on the water-stained coffee table. Somehow everyone always ended up with the lover card except me. That was ok though. It wasn’t the time for lovers, but the love read through every card, every wavy ramen noodle, and every time we laughed even when we knew it was temporary and everyone was fake. It was real too.