Jrnie Jade

May 26, 2025

Welcome to another issue of Sunny Side Scribbles 🍳 A carefully curated infrequent newsletter with succinct ideas and resources relating to mental clarity, intentionality and curiosity. I welcome your thoughts in my inbox any time. To do so, simply reply back to this email! (I read every one! ) Thank you for being in my secret little corner of the internet. If you're new, subscribe here!

Earlier this week, I tried a new method of writing: I began writing something in third person. A method an old friend of mine described as narcissistic and down right gross. Strange angle, but it makes sense, it’s incredibly foreign for anyone to talk about themselves let alone without using the word “I”.

This exercise was prompted as I began writing the script for my first film. I finally put pen to paper and I realized I don’t know how to write a screenplay. How do people talk to each other? How do you build a world? How do you get an audience to see themselves in your main character? How do you humanize the antagonist? How do you start?

I have found the best way to discover whatever you may be searching for is to begin with yourself, your own experiences, your own tangled web of emotions, your own voice.

Although it’s completely foreign and I have no idea what I am doing, I found it to be a liberating experience. A few days after the event passed I looked back at this unique journal entry and was moved at the silly little delicacies life has to offer, and how lucky I was to experience it the way I am.

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Ah!!! Here it goes:

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It had been a long journey to the popular breakfast place she’d spend all morning researching. But there, standing out front, she chose the unpopular crêperie next door.

The breakfast spot they passed was lush, like most spots in London, masked in fake flowers and extra space between the seats to allow all the room for tourists luggages and almost no room for chance. Surely, their food was good, a stunning 5 star review on google maps, a plethora of healthy options, horrendously non-spicy with a hilarious absence of salt - a perfect English experience. BORING. She has two more days until she would stressfully corral the abundance of gifts and books into two small suitcases and the last thing on her mind was being politically food correct, she wanted joy. She wanted to taste something, to feel quite literally anything.

Crepes sounded nice - one of the few things this little place did right. Chocolate Strawberry Crepes. A silly little meal to start the day, with an accessory of a nod to her life at home, a kind and distant memory of her and her best friend sharing these sweet delights on the corner of their quiet suburban town. She quickly imagined the carnival like breading. It all sounded enduring, a circus ride to start the day.

The couple stepped into the crêperie, the workers surprised. They were clearly American, young, patient, kind. This place was no match for the dominant Venus flytrap next door. The room was split into two sections, divided by a long table filled with schoolgirls on a field trip, their laughter bright and uncontrollable, the kind that could spook wildlife and most tourists alike.
They all turned to the American woman taking her seat, curious, smiling. She got a quiet high off the sweet, unfiltered way they looked at her. She enjoyed feeling seen — even more so when she was seen as different.

She sat along the window with a view of the Medici gallery and the South Kensington bookstore, places she spent the past two hours creating an elaborate detour for while on a journey to the museum across town. At home, this sort of thing makes him antsy, he usually offers a quiet hum of impatience thickening the air around them, but the novelty of it all made it different. He didn’t seem to mind, but rather seemed to hope she would continue this play of city pinball.

She looked around and noticed how much her short dress and a thin knitted bolero stood out in a monochromatic sea of black and blue jackets.

The person she sat across from was one of those men neatly draped in the earth tones of a professionalistic bureaucrat. He was one of those men yesterday. Within the past week she witnessed him experience pure exhaustion, hurt, grief, laughter and novelty. She watched as the world around him injected color violently into his life. He was reborn.

Across the table was a ball of color. He wore a divine deep green sweater with light billowed sleeves, a shallow hat with an abstract peacock, white barrel pants and his new wedding band made from the bare hands of a viking from the isle of man.

“Chocolate?” For breakfast?” He asked. She realized she never explained why she wanted crepes.

“With strawberries.” The presence of fiber needed to be acknowledged in some capacity.

Her crepe arrived just as she’d hoped, strawberry and chocolate folded into a warm triangle, the nostalgic style she grew up with, resting playfully on a colorful plate.

His was a square. How peculiar. Four precise flaps folded inward, forming a perfect little pocket, with a golden yolk winking at her from the center.

Then, the wild reborn man, once a neat left-to-right eater, sliced it straight down the middle without hesitation. It startled her. It delighted her. It was unlike him. And yet, maybe it was exactly who he was becoming.

Their conversation was quiet. She wrote in her journal documenting every moment as if it was blanketed with magic. She was so excited, her vivid writing made the wobbly table shake, and the utensil holder, a repurposed Caffè Musetti coffee can, rattled loudly in response. Being entirely moved by the beauty that was him, she quickly pulled out her Roche Le Borde notebook and furiously documented.

They say you fall in love with the new versions of them but its rare to see it happen so soon, so quickly, everything in a split second of time, but this time she was lucky. She was able to see it happening. Live. The opening show.

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