#JuniperIRL Scavenger Hunt

Juniper IRL Bingo Card - web

Here’s a thing I don’t get to say every day: My first book came out on Tuesday!!

To celebrate the release of Juniper Lemon’s Happiness Index, today I’m kicking off a Juniper-themed scavenger hunt that anyone can join online, or, if you happen to be in the Portland area, in person!

The hunt list (above – prints at 8.5 x 11 in) features a combination of spot-this-items and activity prompts. Here’s how the game will work:

Online (open internationally): June 3 – June 11

Play from anywhere in the world by sharing a photo of any item from the list online using the hashtag #JuniperIRL. Each social share may count as an entry for raffle prizes including copies of the book, $20 USD worth of books from the Book Depository, and a Juniper-themed prize pack featuring bath bombs, sweets, and beyond! Winners will be randomly selected on June 12 and contacted via email or direct message.

Note: If sharing a #JuniperIRL photo on Twitter, you are entered for prizes automatically. If sharing on another social platform, please copy the link to your post and paste it in the share widget (click below to go to it):

Share Widget (Rafflecopter)

PORTLAND ONLY: Sunday, June 4th

From 2:00 – 4:00pm on Sunday, June 4, Julie will be celebrating at the Brewery Blocks Starbucks downtown (1039 NW Couch; at the corner of 11th and Couch, across from Powell’s bookstore).

Show her photos of any five items from the Juniper hunt list for a small prize, which may or may not involve ice cream (there is a Ben & Jerry’s three blocks away. It may). Or just come say hi, color a postcard, and get a book signed!

I’ve had a blast putting this all together — I hope you all enjoy it!

Fourth & Morrison

Freewrites are amazing for when you’ve hit a creative block. The rules are simple: pen. Paper. Go. Like your grade school teacher taught you when you were learning cursive, your tool should never leave the sheet—just keep writing. It’s a wonderful thing for meticulous, self-editing writers like me because it forces you to generate material without stopping to revise.

The freewrite I want to share is a purely observation-based portrait of a place. I had some time to kill downtown earlier this week and went, latest issue of The Atlantic and notebook in hand, to a nearby Starry B’s. It was quiet. I looked up from my magazine when I realized not just what a fantastic view I had of city life rushing by on the street outside, but how perfectly well I could hear the exchanges between baristas and other customers. I pushed up my sleeves, uncapped my pen, and wrote the following (please excuse the lack of punctuation; true to the spirit of freewriting, I went totally freeform):

4, 3, 2, 1, 0

Flash, the orange hand

“Can I get your name, please?”

“Decaf, tall, sugar-free vanilla latte.”

“I’m okay, how are you?”

“And there are monkeys all year.” “Aggressive?” “Oh yeah.”

A custodian pulls a squeegee up and down four glass doors. The traffic cone sits alone on the red, brick corner; a slender man in dusk-colored jeans stretches by an older, oranger fire hydrant

“Alex? Your white mocha awaits you.” “Thank you.”

A man in black skinnies, leather jacket and shades sits near the window, daylight glaring on the screen of his laptop. Also black.

Two vans pull up tandem to a traffic light; the red splits to green, they glide through and against them the three-car electric train rumbles to a stop

4, 3, 2, 1, 0

The bell blares thrice

A balding man with a walking stick leans across the walkway, pushes inside and up the steps

Two orange-vested men in white hard hats spin a diamond sign upright—Left Lane Closed Ahead—and post it

“Regular, or reduced fat blue cheese?”

The walking man blinks

High heels clip-clop. Stop. She sits, biting into a steaming egg biscuit in the morning light, brown skirt draped over crossed legs, subtle red lipstick in-tact.

A fire truck fills the window, tiny American flag

Baseball caps pass in pairs and a chessboard man with white headphones on black leather thumbs his phone

The man on his laptop speaks “Sí porque…”

Neon signs buzz on street windows and colored star lanterns with cutting shapes hang near beads, purses with metal studs, and tank tops

Wingtip shoes, brown, light passing through beige sheer and blue-green flowers

A cyclist standing in his pedals coasts by

“You want a lid on it? What was your name? And for you?”

The empty chair on the other side of the table: round, dark, and cold

A wooden tag dangles from the cane, swinging as the man ambles out

The train again rumbles by; the Spanish man picks up and jogs out

A taxi flashes past

4, 3, 2, 1, 0

A woman blows smoke on the corner

“Thanks for asking.”