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lupinblacktheone · 3 years ago

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"So, I was thinking": a modern college!AU:

Johnny is bored. He has already finished all of his crosswords; all of his friends are busy minding their own business and won't pick up their phones.

Classes won't begin until next Monday. Johnny arrived at his dorm last night and he doesn't know when his roommate will be there. All he knows about this person is his name: LaRusso, Daniel.

Wondering about this mysterious boy could set Johnny free from his boredom. Is he a nerd? Or a drama kid? Johnny hopes he won't sing all the time. Of course he likes music (who doesn't?), but musicals... he isn't ready for them yet.

It would be nice to have some common likings with him. Maybe horror movies or breakfast for dinner (well, Johnny is so broke that he eats it for all meals, basically).

Remembering the old times, which weren't good, not at all, tugs at Johnny's heartstrings. He doesn't miss arguing with his parents all the time, but he certainly liked not having to iron his clothes himself. And he misses messing around with Tommy, Jimmy, Bobby and Dutch after school.

Oh, and Karate! Johnny misses it so much that it hurts. He couldn't find a Karate club to join (is this a thing? In Johnny's opinion, it should be. There are clubs for everything in this campus. If he can't find one, he'll form one). Maybe he can practice with Daniel and he could be the second member of the Karate club.

"Hello! I'm Daniel!"

Johnny stares at the boy. He's short, dark-haired and has round brown eyes.

"Johnny", the blond boy gets up, approaches Daniel and shakes his hand. "Can I help you unpacking?"

"Please", Daniel sighs and rubs his neck. "My mother just dropped me off and turned the car around. I barely had time to say goodbye. Can you believe it? I think she wants to rent my room while I'm gone, but I don't think I'll be going home anytime soon. How about you?"

Obviously, the first thing Johnny learns about Daniel is: he's a chatterbox. Second thing: he's from Jersey. He lives with his mother and would love to learn martial arts, but her mother wouldn’t let him because she’s afraid he will get hurt.

"I know Karate", Johnny confesses with a little smile.

***

Sometimes, Johnny regrets having told Daniel about his passion for Karate, because the kid didn't stop begging Johnny for some classes until he finally gave up.

Their dorm is too small and they would destroy it sparring there, so Johnny decides to have the class outside, behind the gym. Daniel said he would meet Johnny there after dinner (and yes, Daniel also has breakfast for all meals, since he is just as broke as Johnny).

December is on the way, so Johnny is wearing as much sweaters as he can (including his Cobra Kai jacket). He leans his back against the red brick wall and puts a cigarette between his lips.

Daniel shows up some minutes later, carrying a heavy messenger bag on his shoulder and wrapped in hoodies and coats (he has lots of cool hoodies; Johnny loves to borrow them and he is using the baseball one right now).

"Ugh", Daniel puts the bag down, massaging his shoulder.

"Are you ok?", Johnny asks with a worried look on his face.

"Perfect. Let's do this."

They get on fighting positions and spar for a while. When they get tired, they walk back to their room, peacefully talking about the day.

"Let me carry this for you", Johnny picks the messenger bag, even though Daniel has already bent to pull it.

He places it over his shoulder and Daniel walks beside him, ranting about his lame Calculus professor.

"I couldn't convince Mrs. Warter to postpone the paper's due date", Johnny complains when Daniel asks about his day. "I'll be lucky if I get a C on it."

"Do you want me to help you?"

Yes, please, he almost answers. Johnny enjoys having Daniel around. They don't have many common likings besides Karate and breakfast food, but he really enjoys staying up late with him, sharing their only desk (Johnny begun to work as a cashier in a store near the campus and Daniel writes other people's assignments for money and they are saving money to improve the place) and laptops on study sessions. Or to spend rare and lazy Sundays in their room, doing crosswords (Daniel bought some magazines and gave to Johnny). Or to share breakfast meals in the middle of the night because they can't sleep.

"Are you free tonight?", he asks, his voice sounds desperate, just as his eyes.

"Is this a study session or a date?", Daniel replies jokingly and raises an eyebrow. "Sure. I can help you."

Johnny opens his laptop and shows Daniel what he's working on.

"I mean, it's not bad, but could use some adjustments here and there. Let's get to work."

Daniel presses the keyboard keys hard with strong movements that emulate a pianist, but with perfectly tied hair. His brain is formulating what should be in the text and getting rid of what shouldn't be read by Johnny's professor.

"I think we're done here", Daniel declares.

"Thanks. I'm gonna buy you a coffee tomorrow, with extra cream."

"Much appreciated", the boy winks and Johnny's heart skips a beat. "So, I was thinking..."

"What a miracle", Johnny teases, smiling to distract Daniel from his blushing ears.

"Anyway, are you going home for Christmas?"

"I don't think so. You?"

"Also no. I don't have enough money for a ticket to Parsipanny."

Daniel looks at Johnny for a moment. His blue eyes are usually shiny, but now... he's more than just sad. Johnny looks depressed and scared.

"Are you alright?", Daniel reaches for Johnny's hand. "You can talk to me. I'm here for you."

Johnny doesn't talk. Instead, he goes for a hug. A big and warm hug. He clings onto Daniel as if he was the only thing keeping him from being blown away.

He doesn't want to cry. However, he can't fight the tears anymore. Daniel holds Johnny, trying to keep him together only with his bare hands. He doesn't try to whisper comfort words in Johnny's ear, he just stays there, providing his roommate all the support he can.

That night, Johnny falls asleep in Daniel's arms. He has never felt this safe before.

The next morning, Johnny rushes to the closest cafe shop to get the nicest cup they have. He drops by the dorm to put the coffee on the desk with a note: To the best roommate ever. Thank you for everything. Love, J.

He sends the paper to Mrs. Warter as soon as he takes a seat in the computer lab for his first class, hoping Daniel's help can save his poor ass from failing Warter's class.

A few hours later, Johnny is waiting for the last class to begin so he can get to work. Not that he likes standing up by a counter telling old people where they can find raisins, plum juice and other things old people buy. But at least, he gets to listen to his music and does little pieces of homework between a client and another.

There is something Johnny can't do at the store: see Daniel. Too bad they don't take many classes together, because every time Johnny sees Daniel entering the classroom, the world changes. It becomes brighter and more beautiful. He knows it's cliché, but Johnny is tired of pretending to be the perfect son, athlete... he just wants to be Johnny.

And Johnny is brave.

"So, I was thinking...", Johnny says when Daniel sits by his side.

"That's unusual", Daniel lets out that amusement air through his nose. "What is it?"

"Do you wanna go out? With... with me?"

That is really unusual. Johnny never was this reticent before. Not even when he noticed he had a crush on Ali Mills.

“Yeah, sure. When?”

“How about Friday? My shift ends at 5:30.”

“Sounds great.”

***

Johnny spends Christmas in his dorm, with Daniel. They curl up on Johnny’s bed, wrapped in Daniel’s hoodies, solving crosswords puzzles and drinking tea while listening to Johnny’s music. Neither of them wants to talk about their families.

Growing up as an only child, Johnny never had to share his things. He wouldn’t even allow Ali to read his poetry (he wrote some about her, tho), or let his friends go through his Spotify playlist. Not because he's embarrassed to like these songs, but because the lyrics describe him so perfectly that he's not comfortable with someone listening to it in front of him.

When he met Daniel and found out they could be good friends (maybe more than that? Johnny certainly hopes so), he felt an urge to take the boy on a journey through his world. First, they shared Karate, then crossword puzzles and went on and on, discovering little things about one another.

“Huh… I couldn’t get you anything for Christmas, so I wrote you a poem. Wanna hear it?”

Daniel doesn’t say anything, just gets closer to him as Johnny clears his throat and searches his notebook for his newest composition. Once he finds it, he puts the paper in front of his eyes (he was brave enough to ask the boy out, but not to have that lovely brown eyes gazing at him while he reads his feelings out.)

“I loved it, Johnny. Now get ready for your present.”

Johnny doesn’t close his eyes when his lips are pressed by Daniel’s mouth. It feels so good that they do it again and again until they fall asleep, holding each other.

***

Graduation is almost here. Most students have moved from the dorms or plan to do it soon. Daniel and Johnny, on the other hand, haven’t mentioned the matter yet. As you can imagine, they don’t want to live with their families again. The only thing Johnny wants is to stay with Daniel and he wonders if Daniel wants the same thing.

“Hey, Danny”, it was supposed to be a nice and quiet study session before the finals, but Johnny can’t hold this down any longer. “I was thinking… do you wanna live with me?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re never getting rid of me, blondie.”

#lawrusso #daniel larusso #johnny lawrence #college au #fanfic #Johnny's POV

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m-y-fandoms · 4 years ago

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Rantarou Amami x Ultimate Writer - FLUFF

Request: Hi! Your writing is incredible ^^ I was wondering if you could write Rantaro with an Ultimate Essay Writer s/o, maybe comforting them when they're up late writing? I hope that's okay, and thank you :D

Hey! Sure I can do this! But, I wanna make it just the Ultimate Writer. I’m an english writing major myself IRL, and I have to write essays, non-fiction, emails, resumes, letters, instructional guides, graphic novels, fiction, poetry etc. so they will definitely have essay-writing skills anyway. Ultimate Writer just makes it easier. I hope you don’t mind :) - Admin Kokichi

"Nnnn!" You gritted your teeth in frustration, "NNNGGHH!" Your arm was stretched to its extent, reaching up with all your might. The shelf above was just out of reach. Your fingertips scraped against the spine of the thick brown book above you, but strain as you might, it wasn’t budging, firm and snug against the others on the shelf. "Gah!" You puffed in anger, clenching your fists. Why did the books you wanted from the basement library always have to be so high up? You needed this particular text as a reference for your next piece.

It was going to be a throwaway letter, a confession written to express your feelings then set them free by burning it later. It didn’t matter, really, what you wrote at this point. Anything to get your mind off of all of… this. In this killing game, your writing was the only thing that brought you comfort. You stayed up every night scrawling until your wrist cramped up. Your Monopad had a notes section to type in, but you much rather stick to the traditional ways. The lack of sleep and endless output of creative thought was starting to weigh on you, and now it looked like you weren’t even getting this damn book today, “Man, this blows…” You sighed deeply. "AH!" You jumped, startled when a large, ring-clad hand suddenly appeared in front of your face, bracelets jangling in your ear. Soon, you felt someone's broad chest against your back. The hand grabbed the book you wanted and brought it down. You turned around with your hand on your chest, still a little jumpy. "Oh, phew… Rantarou, it's just you."

"Yeah,” he chuckled gently, “here ya go Y/N." There stood your crush, the rich playboy with a heart of gold. You felt your cheeks go warm. He was often in the library, and you relished every moment you got to spend glancing over your shoulder at him while we has up to his usual antics of planning traps or researching new ways to interrogate your classmates until someone was spooked into admitting their position as the mastermind. Once in a while, he would read for pleasure, and at first you felt like an asshole for being surprised by that. You judged him too early on, seeing a flawless face and a suave personality and assuming he would be the popular kid archetype you’d seen in many an awful young adult novel. The more you got to know him, the more he revealed himself to be highly intelligent, well-rounded, considerate, empathetic, and extremely attractive.

"Thanks, Rantarou," you looked down, placing the book under your arm.

"No problem… it's not everyday I get to do something useful for someone else here," he rubbed the back of his neck, laughing nervously. You laughed too, looking him up and down.

“That’s not true!” you countered. “You’re always helping us all out. You give great advice, too!”

“Well, I try to help, but I’m sure it hasn’t escaped everyone’s notice that none of my plans have really... taken off,” he gestured, moving his hand in a soaring-upward motion. “Also, with me not rememberin’ my talent and all… I kinda have become the expendable background character, yeah?” His eyes crinkled closed with a kind smile.

He laughed again to fill the silence of the dark, empty library. You giggled. You always thought it was cute how could be so humble, looking the way he did, sounding the way he did. He had been that way ever since you’d met him, and are far as you were concerned, it seemed genuine. You couldn’t really trust anyone in this killing game, but you trusted Rantarou. Even in the library past midnight, where no one would know if you ended up dead, you trusted Rantarou.

"Sorry, I uh, I didn't mean to scare you," he leaned against the bookcase, arms crossed.

"Nah, it's fine. You helped me out, so I forgive you..." You joked, playfully punching his shoulder. He smiled a bit sheepishly, an expression you didn’t see often in the confident male.

"Yeah I… haha," He fiddled with a book nearby," I didn't think anyone would be here. I always come at night. Surprisingly, it's pretty boomin’ here during the day, so I come later on to avoid the hassle of a crowded space." You understood completely. Rantarou was always secretive about his plans.

“I know, I see you here sometimes,” you mused.

“Oh, really? I usually sit behind the back shelves, so I guess i didn’t notice you. You’re pretty quiet, huh? Maybe I should be watchin’ my back for you, huh?” He snickered

"I was having the same thought, isn't that weird?" He looked at you with alarm. “I’m kidding!” To that, he relaxed a bit. "So, watcha reading?"

"Oh, um," He gestured behind him to the aforementioned back shelf "I’m set up back there reading. It's just some old, boring, textbook information on one of the small countries I’ve visited. I thought it'd be interesting, but..."

"Yeah, sounds like it," You looked at him with genuine interest, and he smiled in appreciation.

"Wait, really?!"

"Yeah, why wouldn't it be? I think it’s super cool that you’re well-traveled. I guess that’s why you and Korekiyo get along so well, huh?" His feet shuffled in silent excitement at your shared enthusiasm. He bit his lip playfully, and your eyes grew shiny in admiration. He was so adorable.

He noticed your change in expression and coughed, frowning a little in embarrassment. You tried to change the subject, to make him comfortable again.

"H-hey, Rantarou?"

"Hmm?" He looked up from the ground eagerly.

"You're gonna be up reading all night, right? Well.. I will be, too, and... it’s harder for someone to kill us with four eyes on the lookout..."

"Yeah?"

"So, you wanna maybe sit with me here at my table? The vents reach this side of the library better so it’s a bit warmer... haha, it's... it's kinda cold in here," You pulled your uniform’s turtleneck tighter around yourself, shaking a little. Rantarou immediately accepted. He wasn’t about to pass up an invitation from his crush.

“Hell yeah, sounds great! I’ll go grab my stuff, but, hey, I’ve noticed I hardly ever see you in the dorms… you know you gotta sleep, right?” He had a concerned look on his face, and your heart of course fluttered at his attention to detail and knowledge of your habits, but you didn’t want him worrying about you when he had his own safety to look out for.

“Well, I appreciate the concern, but I’d much rather spend time with you than be in my dorm alone worrying.” He seemed to blush at your words, and you thought you’d maybe gone too far, until he agreed, and rushed over to grab his reading material.

You sighed deeply, a yawn slipping out once or twice. At least two hours had passed since you and Rantarou set up your little corner and there he still sat, in the wooden chair across from yours, never looking up at you from his book. A peaceful, relaxed look glazed his face. He had been that way almost the whole time, but you could sense him becoming a bit antsy. Maybe he was just tired?

You were both fast readers, so by now you had already read the best sections of your own books and switched. He now sat reading the yellowed pages of the book you selected: an eclectic compilation of 16th century romance literature, and you were now five chapters into his text on the different ethnic groups of some far-off land.

“Hmm… heh,” he shook his head amusedly.

“What?” Your head shot up anxiously, fearing he was judging your choice of genre.

“It’s just... some of this is extremely cheesy and cliche. You’d think the old masters would have done a little better.” He lifted the book in a referencing gesture.

“Ah, yes, I noticed that as well. I was hoping for a little inspiration, but… it seems Monokuma isn’t the best curator of quality literature.” He nodded in agreement, seemingly stuck on a thought. You could see him stare into space for a second before continuing.

“Inspiration for what… may I ask?” He pressed, waiting with bated breath for your reply. You felt your feathers start to ruffle, the borders of your comfort zone being invaded by the enemy. You didn’t know if you should answer honestly. The letter was a throwaway for a reason…

“I was going to write a letter…” it slipped out, and you quickly regretted it. Apparently, your brain had decided to take the lead for you. You never recalled yourself being so forward or brave.

“Why do you need sonnets and romance novels to write a letter? Planning to sweet talk Monokuma into freeing us?” He chuckled somewhat teasingly, but his haughty words slowly faded to silence upon noticing the wet shine in your nervous eyes, the way your fingers played with the corner of the book as a distraction for your discomfort.

“No…” You coughed, clearing your throat. Rantarou looked away, running a hand through his green shaggy locks. He knew what the letter was for, of course, who it was for. He was a bit nervous, too, eager to play off the tension in the room with humor, but it wasn’t working. He was wondering why you were so apprehensive, so sullen at his inquiry. You two flirted almost every day… did you seriously need to worry about his reaction? Did you think he didn’t like you back? “I-It’s… well it was going to be a um… a confession of sorts… just to get my feelings down on paper and off my chest. Then I was gonna burn it afterward to set those feelings free!” You smiled weakly, betraying your lack of confidence.

“Nah, you should give it to him- them!” He corrected himself, dropping the most obvious hint he could. You still didn’t look convinced, a bit oblivious.

“Y-you think so?”

“For sure, no doubt. Whoever that letter is meant for,” he leaned in to you, clasping his calloused hands around yours. You felt your heart skip a beat at the contact, and you were left speechless, fearing any words spoken now would come out as idiotic babbling, “they are gonna love it. Trust me.” His eyebrows rose with emphasis, and he shot you one of his iconic, heart-melting smiles.

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hklnvgl · 4 years ago

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Fan Fic Tag Game 2020

Ao3 Name: dorypop

Fandoms: hm mostly the raven cycle but i’ve also written for all for the game, harry potter and avatar this year

1. Fic that was the hardest to write/you spent the most time on: skinny fleas. i started writing it before summer, but then i had trouble finding aurora’s voice, and then i started writing other stuff that came easier to me so i just kept procrastinating on this one. but it’s literally the only adam & aurora fic currently up on ao3 and i love the idea and the first 2k words, so i just had to write to be able to read it, you know? i had two weeks of leave from work in october and i spent them finishing wips, and even though i needed some more time after that for the finishing touches i really applied myself to this one.

2. Fic you spent the least time on/easiest to write: the snow is melting (aftg). i honestly had the idea and started typing at a break at work and i didn’t bother to fix plot holes and stuff. i just wrote it in like two days and posted it and moved on with my life.

3. Longest Fic: i’m going to consider all 5 parts in my fifteen years later series as different fics, so it’ll be the miracle came with a pop (52379 words | hp). i didn’t write all that in 2020 but i did finish it this year so let’s say it counts.

4. Shortest Fic: i don't want to screw this up (536 words | atla). it was a short ficlet born from a tumblr prompt.

5. Fic you were nervous to post: hm so i wrote a kinda quarantine/covid fic back in march and at first it was supposed to be this cute “and they were quarantined together” thing but then my brain started providing unhelpful info and the only way i found to deal with how scary everything felt was to write that. i then got a very angry anon comment which was probably my first ever anon hate? so i’m now a bit ashamed of that fic? but i’m not taking it down bc ao3 is an archive so it’ll stay there. plus i like the title (spring will be spring)

6. How do you choose your titles: oh boy. ok so in summer 2019 i started reading haiku poetry from a very pretty bilingual edition of poems by akutagawa. i just fell in love with the format bc it’s normally very visual and evocative but also super short, so my attention span doesn’t suffer. since then i’ve bought a few more books in the same collection and i dog-ear the pages of the poems that i like or that i think could work as titles while i read them. later, when looking for a title, i sit myself to think what the fic is about and browse those dog-eared poems in search of the perfect one. sometimes i’ll also google “spring+haiku” or something if i can’t find the perfect one. then i just choose a line from the poem. i know it’s a lot of work and probably nobody notices but! it makes me happy!

7. Fave Fic you read: oh i got so many! i bookmark all my fav finished fics

8. Fave Fic you wrote: in vino veritas (drunk pynch). it looks really similar to what i was picturing in my mind.

9. Fave comment: i appreciate and love all my comments but i especially like the few i’ve got with requests/suggestions of things to possibly include in my fifteen years later series, bc then i get to plan around those things to maybe put them in the text and it’s super fun!

10. Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: i don’t want to rewrite it at all, but one of the aus that i’ve written that i think has space to grow is there is a world (my hogwarts au)

11. Share a bit of your WIP or share a story idea that you’re planning:

(it’s from part 6 of the fifteen years later series!)

Adam’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a text from Harvey.

ronan says to tell u foods ready

Adam snorted. Ronan usually yelled at him to come down.

Adam got up and washed his hands, feeling a pang of shame curl around his ribs. Ronan was probably as freaked out as Adam was, and Adam was here feeling sorry for himself and having a mild anxiety attack while Ronan was braving the fort downstairs. He should be supporting him instead, kissing away the wrinkle he always got between his eyebrows when he worried. This was all Adam’s idea to begin with.

12. What was your goal for your fics this year? Did you meet it?: i didn’t really have a goal? i wasn’t planning on writing so much this year actually! back in january i was only thinking i wanted to finish the miracle came with a pop and then never write long fic ever again, and i’ve mostly succeeded—i just need to think of the installments in my harvey series as separate fics, and i’m good to go!

13. What is your goal for your fics next year?: i have the idea for one more installment for harvey that i’m definitely going to write, and after that i think i might take a break for a while (but maybe i’ll get new ideas?? so i’ll never stop???)

14. Highlight of your fandom year: i’ve met really wonderful people through fandom this year. it’s been hellish and i’ve mostly fled every other social media/platform except from tumblr and ao3, so it’s really wonderful that i still want to come here and talk about fictional stuff

15. Highlight of your personal year: oh well it’s been quite bad? mostly due to covid, sure, but i also had some major things come up back in february and early march that were quite hard, and then i had to learn to live with constant changes of plans. i’ve redecorated my whole room though and it feels really welcoming and cozy so that’s a great thing 2020 has brought.

thank you very much to @creativefiend19 for tagging me!! i’m tagging @ailec-12 @pumpkinpadparadscha & everyone else who feels like doing it!

#trc #fic #aftg #hp #d #tag game #skinny fleas #the snow is melting #the miracle came with a pop #15 years later #spring will be spring #there is a world #snow on bamboo grass #in vino veritas

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the-thursday · 4 years ago

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Dear friends,

month or so ago, I've been tagged by @elizathehumancarrot in a post that was about sending hugs to 8 people you love. I wanted to make it a little bit more personal than just tag you, however I didn't have a time and space to sit down in calm and write down what I want to tell you.

First of all, I apologise for everything I've done this past year. I know it hasn't been easy with me (as I can be rather blunt and impulsive sometimes) and you have no idea how much it means to me that you didn't just write me off. Last year wasn't really easy for me and there are still lot of things I am struggling with as I am trying to find my place in this life. Many of you are there to support me through this difficult time when I am questioning everything. Lot of things just broke and I lost my sense as to where to go, what to do. Thank you. One of you even talked me out of ending everything. For the past few months, I almost destroyed a precious friendship with one of you just because everything in my head has been trying to drown me and I wasn't strong enough to deal with their feelings for me. Yet, that person still believes in me, even though it causes them great pain which I wish I knew how to erase. However, believe me, I won't stop trying.

Let me start, then.

@redrose-arrow , without you, I wouldn't be as far as I am now in RA fandom. You supported me from the very beginning when nobody knew me. We haven't been in contact lately because you're struggling with few things on your own but I want you to know I never forgot you. Thank you for being the amazing brave young lady you are. I hope things are gonna work out in your favour, the way you want them to!

@thanksveryga , as I am writing this, I almost don't have words to say. All I have are tears as I am now sitting in park. There are not many things I haven't already told you, but once again, I want to say Thank you with capital T. You know for what. You know what you did. And aside from that, you gave me a gift of new perspective to look at the world. Despite all you deprecating views on the life, there's this bright flame burning inside of you that gave me motivation and courage to don't give up. You're one of my most trusted and dearest friends ever. And I'll always be here for you. You're an amazing artist, an awesome writer, and the most wonderful friend.

@thebutterflyranger ^^ You're absolute sunshine and it has always been a joy to talk with you! You always managed to make me smile no matter what. You're so wonderful and kind person and your presence feels like a gentle sunset at beach. I've always cherished all moments I spent writing or talking with you. We haven't been talking lately because there's a lot going on in your life that means a lot to you and you have my best wishes^^ You'll always have place in my heart

@feelingmeechy ! I know we haven't been much in touch lately but I want you to know that you're still there when I think of my friends. You're an amazing young person who I really admire. When I reached out to you, you were in a lot of pain and suddenly all I wanted to do at the moment was to simply screw the school and everything and fly over to you and hug you. You made me realize the importance of some things that I hadn't actually thought through before. I thought I knew, but thanks to you, I learned so much. Thank you for everything. I hope we can stay in touch and maybe write so more again.

Dear @aseikh ... I find so hard to put the words I wanna say to you together. You have no idea how much you mean to me. For me, you were always there with a kind word on your lips to comfort me when I didn't believe in anything and myself. It hasn't been always easy for you too, to deal with the feelings of loneliness we both have/had been dealing with. Yet you always managed to reach out with reassuring hand to me. With you, I learned how to process some things better than I did before and you taught me the importance of certain values of life and people around you. I've always looked up to you because of your courage and kindness. You were never afraid to express your opinion and thanks to that, I slowly began to come out of my shell. Thank you for everything, Aves, you mean a lot to me.

@hessystuff , I actually needed to take a break from writing this because as I thought over what I want to say to you, I started to cry all over again. You're always there to hear me out and you have no idea how much it means to me. I always feel so safe with you, as if I were wrapped in warm blanket. I can share anything with you and I thank you for all the trust we can put in eachother. We don't know eachother that long, yet I feel like I've known you a lifetime. You've gone through many trials and troubles and I don't even have words just how much I admire you for your strength that lies in your mind and heart. You don't believe much in yourself and that makes me sad because you're really amazing young lady who will make her mark in this world. And even if I were the only person to believe in you, I always will. Thank you, Hessy, for all.

@ranger-melany ... Past few months have been really hard for us, that's mostly to blame on me. I am sorry I couldn't offer you what you sought and that I shut things down. I already told you why that was and I am once again telling you, you'll always be my friend and you mean much to me. I apologise for all you've had to go through because of me. I always liked the bright energy within you that makes all people around just smile. You're full of ideas and I am sure that one day, one of them will be written in world records. Thank you for believing in me.

@theravenlyn ! Meeting you was one of the best days in my life. I always look forward when we're writing (or calling for that matter). You're such an amazing artist and you're one of idols in the world of art. I love how live your drawings can get with right expressions on their faces. You're also very kind person who helped me in many things and you were always ready to support me. We don't know eachother for that long but I want you to know I'm always here for you^^

@iris-silexea , you absolute sunshine! Besides Rose, you're probably the person who's been here from very beginning. It always brought a smile to my face when I saw your profile pic pop up in my notifications. You always support me and my work. It's not that long since I actually wrote you, but I want you to know, you were always there. And now, for the past few weeks you always wrote me to check up on me and to comfort me. It means a lot, it really does. Thank you Iris^^

@vallirenwrites ... Oh Val, you're so wonderful, I don't even have words. You're so talented and clever and I've always considered it an honour that I met you. You have a whole future ahead of you and I know you're gonna mark down your place in history one day. You listened to me many times and I've never properly thanked you for that. And now, few days ago as my health was a little at stake, you cared so much that it actually brought me to tears. I know why you did, I am so sorry for what happened. You're the main reason why I sought medical help later and it probably saved my arm. Thank you for everything, Val, you're really wonderful and amazing and I love your work for this fandom.

@elizathehumancarrot ^^ You absolute treasure!! I so love the bright flame inside of you, the enthusiasm you're able to out in things you do! I love your wonderful poetry and the wonderful soul that's in your heart. You also helped me realize a few important things that I thought over many times and I thank you for being one of those who made a better person with greater understanding. Thank you for all the encouragement you always give me and other people. You're amazing person and you mean a lot to me.

And, thank you all out there for being who you are and making this fandom a family me^^

#thank you all #you all mean much

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un-tide · 6 years ago

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Rupi Kaur Taught Me DIY

(TW for mentions of sexual assault.)

Last year, I wrote a short essay on why I hate Rupi Kaur. Not just why I hate her work, but why I hate her as a writer. Maybe even as a person. I had never (and still haven’t) met this woman, which should have been my first clue that there was something underlying these emotions that probably wasn’t fair to her. But I was comfortable in my hate, even more so when I could articulate everything that was wrong with her in a way that was logical and academic and had nothing to do with me—so much so that I was unable to see that my disdain for this woman did, in fact, have almost everything to do with me.

Growing up as a young girl whose first love was books, I found myself torn between worlds. On my top shelf, I kept some of my favorite series—Percy Jackson, Pendragon, Artemis Fowl. These were books my parents approved of, holding imaginative, fantastical worlds and morals of bravery and friendship. Under my bed were my other favorites—the ones my parents didn’t approve of—The Clique and The Princess Diaries. These kinds of stories were adventurous in a way that was relatable to me, with the struggles of teenage friendship and the perils of mean girls, but they did skip over many of the lessons I got from my more “gender-neutral” books, and they did not have fantastical or imaginative worlds unless they came with a borderline-abusive romance.

Early on, I learned another kind of lesson: as a woman, I will constantly have to choose between books that tell stories that are inspiring and creative, and books that tell stories about people like me.

When I first heard about a young, South Asian, feminist, second-generation immigrant woman who wrote openly about her identity and her story, it was if my childhood prayers had been answered. It seemed too good to be true—I am also a young, South Asian, feminist, second-generation immigrant woman. If I was ever going to find a poet I could relate to, Rupi Kaur was it. Finally, there was poetry being written by people like me for people like me, and I didn’t have to choose between quality and relatability anymore. Imagine, then, how it felt to open up one of her most famous books and read this: “how is it so easy for you/ to be kind to people he asked / milk and honey dripped from my lips as i answered / cause people have not /been kind to me.”

I was dumbfounded. Surely I had picked up the wrong book. This was a book of 2014’s 25 saddest tweets, and the #1 New York Times bestseller Milk and Honey was somewhere else. Where was the symbolism? The wordplay? The rhyme or meter? Even the line breaks had no apparent significance. And above those basic elements of poetry—where was the deeper meaning? It’s a sad conversation, but one that, rather than sitting in a book of supposed poetry, would fit better on a teenager’s Tumblr post, or somewhere else you could read it very quickly, frown a little, and move on. And I did just that.

I returned the book to the stack of fifty just like it, and from Rupi Kaur's Milk and Honey I re-learned that same lesson I learned as a child: good books do not tell your story. Move on.

I won’t pretend that my knowledge of poetry comes from more a few college classes, but if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that understanding a poem takes time. Poems hold secrets—alternate meanings and obscure allusions—that you can only discover when you read them again and again. Their meanings can be argued and refuted using symbols and allusions to books written one-hundred years earlier and a comma placed here instead of there. Sure, over-embellished poetry sometimes does hide more than it reveals, especially to the young or less educated reader, but Rupi Kaur’s work strips an idea of all layers beneath its surface.

Some call Kaur’s style accessible, but I call bullshit. Accessibility is about delivering complex concepts while breaking the barriers that typically surround them, whether those barriers be based on education, class, gender, sexuality, or race. Tossing a sad thought you had in the shower to a young audience does not break barriers to feminist or survivor literature of any kind.

On a personal level, I do hold some empathy for Kaur. Her poems attempt to address difficult topics like heartbreak and abuse, and I imagine she has been through some trauma that many women are familiar with, myself included. The meaning of the poem I read in the bookstore was not lost on me: sometimes people are kind because they are already acquainted with cruelty. But simply stating something true or shocking does not make it well-crafted, and it certainly does not make it poetry. Much of Kaur’s success comes from stating the obvious in the most plain way possible, taking a complicated idea and hollowing it out into a pretty painted shell.

To put it simply, Kaur’s work is shallow. It seems to lack effort as much as it does depth, and despite her education, it displays little mastery of imagery or symbolism or poetic style. It is less poetry than it is bite-size food-for-thought possibly conceived in a trendy hipster cafe and posted on Instagram as the caption for an aesthetically pleasing but disappointingly grimace-inducing over-sweet cup of milk and honey. Kaur touches the surface of ideas before shying away like a cat from water, and in doing so fails to teach her audience of young women and girls—many of whom might have fallen in love with poetry had they not been alienated by mainstream misogynistic and white-centric classics—how to analyze and write complex ideas that are pivotal to their recovery, their self-esteem, and their survival.

If my school had taught more female-friendly literature when I was in high school, I wouldn’t have begun to hate reading. The books we read that actually included women were traumatic at worst and voyeuristic at best, and my teachers seemed oblivious, perhaps simply starstruck by the stubbornly unwavering fame and brilliance of the classics. Nevermind that 1984 featured a protagonist with a burning desire to rape the book’s only notable female character. Nevermind that the sexual liberalism in Brave New World had my elderly, white, male substitute teaching us that the World State was—despite its female citizens’ complete lack of reproductive autonomy and a suspicious absence of female Alphas—a feminist society. Nevermind that The Handmaid’s Tale, despite actually being a feminist novel, depicts a misogynistic hellscape a little too realistic for comfort.

The older I grew, the more it seemed that very few of the classics were written with women in mind, and almost none of them seemed to be written for women’s benefit, education, or—god forbid—enjoyment.

Disappointed by the classics, I returned to popular fiction as a teenager, desperate for a story with a protagonist I could relate to, or at the very least did not want to strangle every time they opened their mouth. At my local flea market, which I frequented every first Saturday of the month, I had come across a well-stocked used-book stall. While making my way through The Princess Diaries series dollar by dollar, I stumbled upon a book that I can only imagine was placed in flea market stall that day by the Devil himself just so he could have a laugh: The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I won’t give away any spoilers, but I’ll give you one guess what happens halfway through. I am not ashamed to say I stopped reading anything other than The Princess Diaries for some time.

I wish I could say my high school experience was unique. There is a profound need for contemporary literature and poetry that not only does not alienate women, but caters to us specifically. We deserve to read books that do not hurt us more than we already are hurting, that address our trauma but don’t weaponize it against us. We deserve to witness other women powerfully and passionately explore and understand our shared experiences and shared pain. We deserve to learn how to explore these ideas for ourselves. The feminist subjects of Rupi Kaur’s poetry deserve nuance, because the more precisely we are able to articulate our experiences and ideas and traumas, the more understood they—and we—become. Much like I was as a young child, the girls devouring Rupi Kaur’s work are still scrambling for crumbs. She had the opportunity to feed a generation of girls starved for poetry free of white men’s hunger, and she didn’t.

Kaur, at first, seemed to me to be nothing new in a world of successful yet seemingly talentless women who continuously fail and profit off of the next generation of starving girls (the Kardashian-Jenner clan comes to mind). But only on my own journey to becoming a writer did I come to understand that Rupi Kaur might be different, that she might actually be trying very hard--that she might be hiding something. As a reader, I never understood that a fact that I am painfully aware of now: writing makes you vulnerable. The more I wrote, the more I began to realize that what I perceived as lack of depth was, perhaps, a terribly relatable inability to be open.

It’s what I hate the most about writing—displaying yourself to the world when your childhood scrapes are still scabbing over and everyone is certain to see under your skin. I’ve never been good at being vulnerable, which makes me a reluctant writer on a good day and a liar on the rest. People do weird things when they’re afraid, like write mediocre poetry or channel all their anger at the world towards someone they’ve never met. I could not do, or at least have not yet done, what I ask of Rupi Kaur. What would I tell her, I imagine, if I ever met her? I could deflect: “Hey Rupi, your poetry about your suffering needs some work.” Or I could be honest: “Please, Rupi, tell my story for me.”

Because isn’t that what I always wanted: a story just like mine, read to me like a mother would read to her child at bedtime, a story about people like me that teaches me I’m not alone. I had waited for representation so long that when it finally arrived, it felt like a betrayal when it fell so far short. I don’t hate Rupi Kaur because her work is bad—I hate her because her work is bad and there are almost no other options. I hate her because she is my generation’s standard for how to write stories like hers and mine, and it does not do them justice. I hate her because I wanted her to do what I didn’t yet have the courage to do myself.

Maybe I’m projecting; maybe Rupi Kaur is exactly as shallow as her poetry suggests and no amount of openness will make it better. It doesn’t change that I expected someone else to be the writer of my story simply because we have a lot in common. I wasn’t fair to Rupi Kaur when I wrote my 300-word-long-rant about theintolerable injusticeshe was inflicting on young women and girls—which I posted, and I’m aware of the irony, on Tumblr and Instagram. I placed the burden of my vulnerability on her shoulders.

I stand by my criticisms of Rupi Kaur, but I also owe her some gratitude, because she taught me another lesson: I can’t rely on other people to tell my story, or stories about people like me. I can’t rely on other people to fill a void in literature or poetry or to fix any other problem I insist needs solving.

If you want something done right, or even done at all, sometimes you just have to do it yourself, even if—especially if—that means opening up about experiences you’d rather keep hidden. If Rupi Kaur is any indication, the bar for young women’s contemporary poetry and literature is evidently on the floor, which, on the bright side, means that any woman who has the courage to openly, honestly, and vulnerably tell her own story—even if she gets ripped to shreds by mean girls like me—will still be doing all of us a favor.

#disclaimer i wrote half of a draft on the train to school and then the final draft the night before it was due #so its not exactly mm.. polished #mine #words #mine words...

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christimesteele · 3 years ago

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Transcript - Time Talks Ep 37 - Felicia Rose Chavez on Poetry, Dismantling Patriarchy, Anti-Racist Writing Workshops, Mutualism, Building Power, and Grief

chris time steele 00:06

Welcome to Episode 37 of the Time Talks podcast part of the channel zero network. This month I had the opportunity to speak to Felicia Rose Chavez, along with being an educator and professor, Chavez is an activist, writer and author of the book The Anti Racist Writing Workshop: How to Decolonize the Creative C lassroom. In this episode, Felicia Rose Chavez spoke about poetry, dismantling patriarchy, anti racist writing workshops, mutualism, building power and grief. Thank you to awareness for the music. And here's a brief jingle by fellow channel zero network member.

Silverthreads 00:41

still walking, still waking is co hosted by me carla bergman, and me Eleanor Goldfield. This is where we interview long term organizers and radicals about their watershed moments, what they've learned along the way and how they maintain their hope on this path, dreaming and building emergent worlds for a present and future anchored in justice and freedom for all because there are forks in the road. But they all lead us home to the fight to the build

chris time steele 01:38

You wrote about the influence of June Jordan's Poetry for the People. I wanted to read an excerpt from it because I feel your book does this just so much as well and your writing. I read all of your, most of your short stories and essays that I could find online as well which were just so powerful. She writes, "poetry is a political action undertaken for the sake of information, the faith, the exorcism and the lyrical invention, that telling the truth makes possible. Poetry means taking control of the language of your life. Good poems can interdict a suicide, rescue a love affair and build revolution in which speaking, and listening to somebody becomes the first and last purpose to every social encounter." And building on top of this, I was wondering if you could speak on a transformational moment. I don't know if this goes back to when you went to Albuquerque Academy, or after it or before or maybe it's a process, a moment that radicalized you to interrogate the white supremacist capitalist patriarchy further, but to also fight against it, but also building outside of it?

Felicia Rose Chavez 02:48

That's a powerful question. I don't believe that it's any one moment. I mean, I think there are shocking moments that we lived through, that we can point to and remember, by the narrative that I've had the opportunity to reflect on is one of consistent lived experiences that I like to think of as splinters right, they just kind of splinter under the skin where you're like, something's not right about that. That's not, is it just me, am I being crazy? Am I being overly sensitive, or why being too critical? And it happens again, and again, and again, until something's just like so much in your face that you can't, you can't deny it anymore. And you have a choice to make, you know, do I, you know, shake my head walk away, talk about it later, rant privately with my friends, my parents, my partner, or do I take action against it. And I think it took me many, many years to finally commit to that action. First through proper channels. You know, like in graduate school, I was petitioning for change and working on academic committees, working with faculty to create my own class. And nothing happened as a result of that. I mean, it was a lot of extra labor with no real fruit. So it took me writing down my own experience on the page and being vulnerable, and saying, hey, you know, I'm going to I'm going to count these splinters, I'm going to take them out one by one. And that started as early as, you know, elementary school where you're like, ah, why am I being treated differently as a student of color, you know, and then throughout middle school in high school, as you said, I went to a private predominantly white school in Albuquerque, New Mexico. And by that senior year, I was furious. The context of college changed everything. You know, when I when I saw how easily my peers kind of transitioned into higher education, as though it were all laid out for them. And it was, you know, it was it was predestined. And for me it was real work, something I had to kind of claw for, and hang on to. So, you know, I guess the ability to articulate what it is that was wrong, presented itself in my teenage years. But it wasn't until later in life in my in my 30s, really where I was able to put it down on the page in a way that felt like I was doing it justice.

chris time steele 05:36

Your thoughts about that moment were really, blossoming. When you were in Iceland, going back to when you said, when you were in elementary school, I remember you mentioning, in the book or a talk when you handed your husband, something from the third grade, where you were really,

Felicia Rose Chavez 05:54

He was like, really, we're going all the way back? And I'm like, yeah, we're going all the way back. But that experience of reading, the very earliest rendition of the book was a 10 minute speech, where I just spoke to what I experienced at the University of Iowa as an MFA graduate student in creative nonfiction writing. And then a list of practical strategies that I do now kind of pivoting, from the way I was taught and embracing a new way to teach creative writing in the classroom. And I cried during that speech I stood up and just cried and cried. Because I was saying it. I was, it was my testimony, I was testifying to the people I went to school with and the people who taught me they were in the room. And I was, I was really summoning the courage to say what I experienced out loud, I think so many of us don't, we don't have that opportunity to go back and say, listen, this is what happened to me here. And we need to change so that this doesn't happen again, to your current students and your future students, it was a powerful, powerful moment that I think emboldened me to move forward to write the book.

chris time steele 07:12

And I really thought the Iceland story was so powerful, because you said in, in one moment, you were so emotional, and cried, because you felt like you were betraying some of these people. But at the same time, when you when you did that, you found that you had so many people on your side, you know, when people were passing around the paper and trying to dismantle the systems that you spoke about was so violent.

Felicia Rose Chavez 07:39

That was the great surprise of this book. And it happened twice. So once in Iceland, where I'm sobbing, because I think, what are they going to say, you know, and then I get this glorious response as you said from, from both the people of color in the room and the white educators in the room who said, we don't want to, we don't want to replicate this sort of harm. So what can we do to help? You know, like, can we have a copy of your speech? Send it to us, you know, and I thought, well, I could do more than a speech, i'll write on this, I'll really give it everything I have. But in the process of writing, I can't tell you. I mean, it was two years of constant paranoia, I mean, really awful, agonizing moments, day and night, where not only am I dredging up, hard to confront moments from my past and trying to make art out of it, trying to make a message out of it. But at the same time, I'm thinking, this person from graduate school is going to call me a liar. This person who taught me is going to is going to, you know, say that I got it all wrong. This person, I mean, I just was constantly thinking of strategies of defensiveness and dismissiveness and denial that has been the signature moves of white supremacy throughout all of our lives, right throughout history, and so I thought how many people are going to shut this down before he even has a chance to speak to anyone? Luckily, before it was published, as we were in the editing phase, a group at the University of Iowa called Black at Iowa Writers came forward and started calling out faculty members by name, specifically one faculty member John Degotta(?) and spoke out against their unfair treatment in the nonfiction writing program. I wasn't hip to it, a friend kind of nudged me to check out this social media account and I cried and cried. Then too, I mean, just out of pure relief, that it was real, that this experience was shared, and that someone was bold enough to come out before me and do this work. And then in an, in a sense, hold my hand and walk me through the process so that I could be brave enough to do it next.

chris time steele 10:08

Thank you for sharing that story. That's, that's really powerful. And it really shows you that when you have the courage to stand up, that others are going to stand with you, even though they feel so alone. And that vulnerable moment,

Felicia Rose Chavez 10:20

Absolutely, they didn't know, no one knew that I was working on this manuscript, it wasn't like I kept in touch with the alumni committee. You know, like, you never know, you never know how your work is going to impact someone, how your story, just sharing it aloud, it's gonna impact someone to, to go on and share their own story. And that's the power in in storytelling, right. And so, that was such a relief for me to feel supported in that way and less isolated.

chris time steele 10:55

I think, another part of your, your writing that has such a liberatory and powerful effect is that you call out these systems as they are by using bell hooks, white supremacist capitalist patriarchy. It's, it's right out in the open is, it's not something that some writers try to hide it by talking about systems and things like this and something so refreshing about your work. And you explicitly tell your story, which I feel calls out patriarchy as well. You mentioned how a colleague had to leave, and someone said we don't want to mother, these students and I loved how you reformatted the language. And you made it so powerful of talking about how we are multitudes mothered again and again in rhythm and time. And you talk about in the piece Color Lines about the coop living situation and the racism and patriarchy you had to endure there. From your story, the Brown Line, which just, which would be a simple walk for a man is this horrifying event for you. And for a woman that shows that inside your house, you have sanctuary but you should have that outside as well. It should be your sanctuary, your stories make these be so apparent. And was just wondering if if these tools to dismantle these systems like patriarchy? Is it just in the writing? Or what are some strategies you use to help dismantle or show these systems with students or more in your own writing?

Felicia Rose Chavez 12:30

Well, first of all, thank you, I feel so heard and seen by that quick analysis. That was really that was wonderful for me. Thank you for, for that quick overview of different works that I've put out in the world. That was really special. Yeah, I think that it takes this reorienting, we're so accustomed to, especially within our educational journeys to say the right thing, to be what ever the person in front of us teaching us needs us to be in order to move forward, move on, get the grade, whatever it may be, right tune out. My practice, at heart, it's about tuning in, it's about doing the opposite, right? It's not about the authority in the room. It's about becoming our own authority. And the more that we can tune in and quiet everything around us, and listen. And the first step is to listen to our fears, and to listen to our insecurities, because that's just another iteration of white supremacy in our brain. So it's just another form of manipulation and control to say, you can't do this, you're not any good at this. Who do you think you are? Right? And sometimes these are the voices within our own families from internalized racism, right? This is who you know, who do you owe your fancy? Who do you think you are? Right? So, so these are, these are the voices that haunt us, but they live there and they're not going away? We just got to acknowledge that that's what that is. And then we move forward and we say, Okay, if I can move past fear, right, what do I want to try? What do I want to risk and failure's okay. So if we just accept the failures, okay, what do I want to try? And when we attempt something, whatever classroom it may be, it doesn't have to be a creative writing classroom. My goal was the anti racist writing workshop, is to couch it in creative writing, but like, please extend it. Right? I'm working with science teachers, I'm working with math teachers and working with history teachers, like extend it beyond, let's activate our imaginations to see how much we can empower students across the academic curriculum. And so we we embolden our students to try something that they're afraid to try and, and then as they're doing it, we ask them to listen. How's it going? check in with yourself? What are you proud of? What, what's really hard for you? What do you want this to be? But it's not yet, right? And we ask questions, encourage students to ask questions of themselves to be their own assessors. And then finally, how did it go? Right? What do you think about what you produced? What do you want to change, if you had an opportunity to change it, go on and try it, right? until they're able to tune in and say, I trust my own voice, I trust who I am, my gut, whatever we want to call it right to be able to go inward and say, I'm going to tune you out right now and listen to me. And I think that is so powerful for all of our students, but especially our students of color, and especially our young women of color, who can say, okay, now I can trust me, I'm going to listen to that voice that tells me this is an unsafe situation. I'm going to listen to that voice that says leave now. Right? I'm going to listen to that voice that says you cannot talk to me. No, thank you. Don't talk to me that way. And I'm going to trust that voice. And I'm going to act on it. So it is, as I said, it's couched in creative writing. But the whole gist of it is, how can we truly embrace our own voices and exercise those voices to create change in our culture?

chris time steele 16:28

Yeah, I love that answer. And you really talk about boundaries in your in your book as well. And how were you when you were turning 30. And you talked about the trust in yourself and the power of No, and how this helped you fight back against educational and academic trauma that you were experiencing?

Felicia Rose Chavez 16:46

Yeah, that that was the turn for me, was becoming a mother. And it was a really hard time period in my life. My husband, I was a new mother. And I don't consider myself maternal. And there are some women who are like that I've since learned, you know, are we like, you know, I changed the diaper for the first time when I changed my son's diaper. It was on on the job learning. And, and I had I experienced postpartum depression, probably as a situational and hormonal kind of situation, we had just moved to a new town, my husband took on a new job, he was traveling a lot, I didn't know anybody. And I just remember being in the house a lot. There was this huge wildfire. And so we weren't allowed to go outside for weeks because of the smoke. And so it was just like, contained. And and this, not a good recipe for mental health, for a new mother especially. And it was then that I start I knew I had to speak up. Like I knew I had to start saying what I wanted, what I needed. And so that was a that was a big turn for me. Again, intricately linked with with being a woman.

chris time steele 18:05

I was wondering on my next question, Is this the kind of two questions they may relate I notice a lot of mutualism in your writing in your pedagogy? How you talk about deep listening, it also reminds me of some of those Zapatista teachings of asking, we walk kind of that we, we learn as we go, and we reflect as we go. But we don't get paralyzed by that fear. I was wondering if if there's a relation with mutualism, with your inspiration for your writing. And it also sees this ties in with Audre Lorde on quote you used, the way we can do is by creating another whole structure that touches every aspect of our existence at the same time as we are resisting it.

Felicia Rose Chavez 18:51

I mean, that's, that's the difficulty that presents itself, right is that we're on a learning journey together as educators, those of us who are invested in doing the work, and I'm doing facilitations now all over the country, with elementary, middle, high school, undergraduate and graduate teachers, who are eager to learn that the question comes up again and again, is this the right place to do this work? Can we do this work within the institution? How do we, how do we flourish when the structure is set up so that we fail? And it's a tough question? It's a question that's keeping me up at night. Especially when it comes to our younger students like they're so they're held to a particular learning standard, right? Very strict learning standard. And there's no collapsing that system yet. As one brilliant educator just shared with me the other day on a meeting. He said let's do it anyway. With our with our kiddos with our little ones, let's just do it. Let's Let's lead them through an anti racist writing workshop curriculum. And then they'll become the next generation to overturn the standardized tests and the learning standards that they've been held prisoner to, for so, so long. And I thought that was really exciting, exciting way to think about it, right? How do we, how do we learn along the journey to change the restrictions that we face on a daily basis? Right. And it's, it's reminiscent of that last letter that I include in the book, which is addressed to the reader? And it's something like how do we live racism and mourn racism and fight racism all at the same time, it feels impossible, sometimes it's just, I'm just gonna lie in the bed, be useless, because I'm so overwhelmed by all of this. And then there are other days where you can take on the fight and try to change the system within so

chris time steele 21:03

are you referring to the Letter to Close? When the police officer was blocking your driveway? This, this may lead to my my next question. And you may have already answered it with I really liked that answer. We're planting the seeds, and the students in the next generations to fight the threat to blossoming that is in academia or just education systems. And this question is of the do you worry about your book being co opted by liberal institutions? As an example, after George Floyd was murdered, we saw many businesses and colleges make statements about white supremacy and racial justice. But at the same time, there's been so many murders since then, of people of color Black, Indigenous communities and Black trans communities. And also with the recent killings of Daunte Wright and now Adam Toledo. My academic institution has been silent as well. Do you worry, the term anti racist writing workshop will be branded but still reproduce the violent and toxic problems that you wrote about?

Felicia Rose Chavez 22:11

I mean, likely? Likely, I mean, look at, you know, these schools that I'm working with now, quite a few of them preempted, you know, before the book preemptively took on this anti racist initiative. Right, Colorado College, whom I work for, has taken on an anti racist initiative college wide. They're attempting to do the work. I feel, perhaps more so than some of the colleges that I kind of, you know, step foot in, and then and then exit. When I do these facilitations. They're at the very beginning of this initiative, whatever they label it is true anti racist work. I wouldn't call it that. Right. I think that's the term that's popular at the moment. But hey, that's a lot further than what we were three years ago, right? No one was throwing around that term at the college and university level, to the extent that they are now, again, co opting is the right term. I think that they're putting out fires. Because students are demanding again and again and again, that there's change. So I think it's a gesture to address those concerns. The real work happens daily, and college wide. And that's where we get into trouble. Because I think the attitude of many faculty members is, oh, well, we'll just have to wait on so and so's retirement in order to stop implementing harm. Because we all know so and so is, you know, horribly terrible, right? There's this 10 year old system where we have folks who are irresponsibly educating their students, it's hard for me to enter into the Zoom space and do these facilitations when I can see the dismissiveness at play sometimes with faculty. This isn't to say that it's always this way. Sometimes they're very sincere groups who are asking a lot of questions that are very engaged. Sometimes people turn their turn their bodies away from me, they'll roll their eyes, they'll sigh they're clearly doing something else, right. they're required to be there to hear me out or tune me out, whatever it is that they're doing. The University of Iowa just brought me in to do a panel and a public reading, which was a surprise for me, and it was one of the worst couple of weeks I've had since the book came out. I was not eating well, I couldn't sleep. It was reliving a trauma that I hadn't anticipated would be so difficult. For me, and it truly was, and I think that was also damage control. Right? I think it was putting public facing events out to the world to say, Yes, she, you know, she writes about her experience. So look, we're listening to her, will there be change that comes as a result of that I'm not facilitating workshops with those faculty members. And I'm curious if that does happen, right? I don't know. It's disappointing a lot of the time, and I get a lot of hate mail. And you've talked about the gendered politics of this all I mean, there's horribly sexist, as well as racist. And it's discouraging. It's disappointing to hear echoes of these hate messages out of the mouths of professors who are responsible for generations of students, you know, quick to dismiss and deny that racism even exists. It's scary sometimes.

chris time steele 25:58

I think you made a great point of many awesome points, that just having an anti racist workshop, even if it's not being lived up to it lays this great foundation for it to be called out and put back into place, when it's not being used correctly. By as you said, these students who seeds were planted in optimism of this?

Felicia Rose Chavez 26:20

Absolutely, I do a facilitation called self advocacy for students. And that's my favorite one to do. Because it's, it's how to hold one another as peers accountable and how to hold our educators accountable. Every time I talk to educators, I say you need to explicitly say it. I teach an anti racist writing workshop, I teach an anti racist econ class, I teach an anti racist history class, like, How can you be so explicit, so as to empower your students to hold you accountable, right, because if you just come out and say it, now you've got to follow through. And, and I want all of our young people to be able to exercise their voices in that way, where they were their reminders, constant reminders to one another, and to their, to their teachers, that they deserve better.

chris time steele 27:17

I also loved throughout this book that you call out gatekeeping even with, not just within academia, but within these writing groups that these workshops, there's often a lot of gatekeeping that goes on, and I like the you talk about gaslighting, and also the importance of language, all these different things that really cause so much violence, and how you call out words like literary and classical, which are another synonyms for gatekeeper. And I just really love that you I just wanted to highlight that this is so important what you bring out. And when I was teaching political science and history, this was something I was trying to change in my department to stop using words like slave and using enslaved, I had a big fight with my department when I tried to get rid of a Pearson textbook, and try to add Roxanne Dunbar Ortiz, The People's Indigenous History of the US.

Felicia Rose Chavez 28:14

Wow, that was a fight?

chris time steele 28:16

Yeah, then they told me because I didn't have a PhD. I didn't know about scholarship, that the book was against America and all kinds of things is so horribly racist things and it really reminded me of your story on Shakespeare, but not being a play that was highlighted for just not one time, which became an outrage.

Felicia Rose Chavez 28:37

Yeah, yeah. I mean, I just just earlier today I, a board member at the creative writing studies organization, I just joined, and they put out a call for proposals for conference panels. And I just read the call and noted language in there, like, you know, you must have, you must cite other sources, scholarly sources that support this work, you know, this, this is the same old rhetoric that that we offer one another to maintain this, this domination over who gets the control of the narrative, right. And to me, that's no different from our officers saying, you know, there was a meme that I posted, you know, it's a package of Skittles, it's a gunm a cell phone, it's a gun, a sandwich, it's a gun and then a taser? Oh, no. Right. I got confused. I didn't have you know, a gun is a taser like it's, it's control of the narrative. So, so it extends across our culture. It's not just within academia, but it is shameful, how we use that as as a standard to enforce white supremacy without having to use those words.

chris time steele 29:56

Definitely. Thank you. This is probably my last question, I want to be mindful of your time, along with your amazing book which I have already recommended it to so many people, the Anti Racist Writing Workshop, I'd like to talk about your other writings as well. And I love Femme Fatal. the great frat boy in the sky, your other writings, how they deal with a field to deal with a lot of grief, Anatomy of a Life is one, the Mindful Birthing. I love that one. I was wondering if you could talk about the piece Memory Loop, which I found extremely personal and powerful and vulnerable. Wondering if you could talk about the process for this piece of was it therapeutic to write? Did it reopen wounds? Or did it help to heal wounds? Or was it a combination?

Felicia Rose Chavez 30:49

That's That's the one. I feel like all the other writing was just practice, right. I mean, it was just fun. Well, not always fun. But but more experiments. You know, I wanted to try different things with my writing. But that was the very first piece I ever wrote. I taught writing for many years as a way of supporting myself. And I taught writing because I was such an avid reader. And so I think the two go hand in hand and in that I was able to share strategies that appealed to me, as a reader, and relay that but not necessarily coming from a place of a writer speaking to another writer, I thought of myself as a teacher for so many years. And it took needing to relocate to Albuquerque, from Chicago, to go back home and serve as a caretaker, to my parents, my dad specifically, that motivated me to say, well, I'll try. I'll try graduate school, I'll try a writing program, let me dedicate some time to writing. So I showed up for a two week period, I showed up every day, a little bit early to work. And I wrote, you know, maybe 20-30 minutes per day in my little cubicle. And I would write and cry and write and cry. And what I created, I didn't edit I just sent out. And that was the very early version of memory loop. It took me between 10 and 12 years to return to that piece over and over and over again, I did so many different versions of that piece. I mean, the bones are still the same, but I tried reordering it, retitling it, like I mean, I just just adding a ton of research, taking it out. It was the, it never felt right. And once I achieved the draft the current draft, I thought I just knew it. It's like the body knows. It just I just knew it was almost like a sigh of relief. Like I finally did it. And it was, I think, transitioning from this is what happened to me, right, which I think is what we all come to the page as an act of like, release, right, this is what happened to me, I was witness to this, then, you know, this is, let me try to get inside the head of my mother who had experienced great depression. And it's kind of a stunning, shocking depression, which felt out of nowhere, when in truth was years long in the making, once I stepped out of her experience and into my own and really owned my own my own actions, like I'm complicit in this story, I'm not just there watching it happen. I'm involved, and I need to point the finger at myself as well, it needs to be, you know, like, it needed to be way more complicated than I was initially prepared to make it because I had to, I had to process it first. So to make something of it took many, many years. And it taught me something I learned about myself in writing that and coming to terms with my own guilt, as a you know, a participant in in the story. And in that in that few years, you know, 10, 5 years of my mom's life. And I'm really grateful that I didn't settle for that first draft. I'm really grateful that I did that work and went back again and again. Because I think that I needed to teach myself something in that writing.

chris time steele 34:22

Wow, thanks for sharing that process it's such a powerful piece, you switch from narrative so smoothly. You know, some writers have to use the three stars to show we can do the scene as a new narrative. And then your piece went to so many different avenues that was just so powerful. Thank you for explaining that process. Thank you for listening to this episode of the time talks podcast. Please check out some other shows on the Channel Zero Network. Thanks to Awareness for the music, please support his music on Bandcamp and please pick up Felicia Rose Chavez's his book out on Haymarket, the Anti Racist Writing Workshop, and check out her other writings. I'll link them in the show notes. See you all next time and free Palestine.

#anti racism #channel zero network #Haymarket Books #patriarchy

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lincolnbrendt · 7 years ago

Text

self para || mad world

Day 1:

“It’s only the first day, Linc, it’s totally normal for her to stay out.” Daisy’s voice was always so well controlled that he didn’t know if she believed the words she was saying. She probably didn’t, he told himself. “You know she’s been through a lot. She just needs a break.”

Lincoln nodded silently as he watched the redheads fingers move nimbly through Mallory’s blonde hair, twirling them into two plaits. He must have zoned out when they’d cleaned the blood out of it. That made it easier for him to breathe every time he looked at her.

Daisy left, not trying to say anything further to Lincoln. A gesture he appreciated because he didn’t know if he remembered how to speak anymore. Lucy came out from behind the curtain as Adam’s mother’s voice was heard in the distance. His sister might have said something to him, but he couldn’t tell. The woman he’d come to know as Nicole held out a black coffee from the machine for Lincoln.

“You seem to need it,” she spoke in a gentle voice, smiling at Lucy who thanked her on Lincoln’s behalf. Lincoln wondered wryly how much the woman would smile if she knew she was in the same room as her future grandchild with absolutely no clue. “And Ms. Brendt, dear, I do hope you and your baby are doing well. I can’t imagine what you went through.”

If he’d had any energy, he would have nearly scoffed.

The woman and her husband disappeared to talk to their son and his jaw tightened as he heard Adam’s voice. It was a selfish thought of him to have, but he thought he might have swapped Mallory’s place with his in a heartbeat. After the idea passed his mind he began tugging at his own hair, hating himself for being so selfish but he couldn’t help it he couldn’t help it he didn’t mean to think that.

“Hey, Lincoln, hey come on stop, hey stop doing that.” It was Lucy’s voice that broke through the waves of guilt he felt, bringing him back to reality.

“No no no no I thought something bad I thought a bad thing.”

“What bad thing Lincoln? Lincoln what bad thing?”

And just like that, he snapped out of it, making himself take a deep breath.

“Never mind. I just… I d-do-d-don’t r-r-rem-member.” A lie, but one that was for the best. The concern on Lucy’s face became more prevalent than before, and Lincoln forced a smile. “I-I’m go-g-gonna go get s-some foo-f-food. I’ll be back soon.”

Day 3:

It had been far too long since Lincoln had shaved or showered or done anything to take care of himself. He couldn’t do anything but sit there, wasting away in the chair as he watched the line on Mallory’s heart monitor go up and down. Empty coffee cups sat on the desk behind him, broken poems scribbled on the side as he’d always done for Mallory before.

It was only day 3.

People were still telling him to hold onto hope. That this was nothing out of the ordinary.

He wondered if they understood that the only reason he survived the weeks without her before was by knowing she was a phone call away and knowing that once he was brave enough to face her and his mistake they would be fine.

He wondered if they understood that the labyrinth his mind had become over the years was unnavigable without the light she provided with her heartbeat.

He wondered if they understood that every day she stayed asleep, his sanity fled deeper and deeper into that labyrinth.

Day 5:

Sleep was no longer a concept Lincoln really remembered. He was downing a large coffee at least four times a day and even if he hadn’t been chugging so much espresso his mind wouldn’t have shut off long enough to allow him a rest more than the occasional hour long naps when he found himself bogged down by a vivid nightmare over and over again. Mallory, bloody and dead in his arms.

His knees were tucked up against his chest as he sat near her bed now. He was trying to read aloud from the book of his poetry he’d roughly constructed but the words and letters were floating around on the page as he tried.

In the distance - or perhaps right next to him he no longer cared enough to tell - he heard a nurse discussing his own health with someone who sounded like Logan. Then again it could have been Lucy or Daisy or anyone who wasn’t Mallory because Mallory couldn’t speak.

“We’re concerned that his lack of sleep combined with his autism and OCD could lead to… some sort of mental episode. What we can do is provide him with some sleeping medicine if you would authorize that, to just get him to rest. If he continues this way I… just don’t know.”

“It’s fine. I’ll sign off on it, but good luck selling him on it.”

Lincoln did not go down without a fight.

“Wake me up if she does,” he said weakly as his eyes fought off the darkness that encompassed him, only having been swayed after being told he could end up hurting himself or someone else if he kept on acting like this.

Day 6:

When he woke up he was in a stranger’s room, it was empty, dark and quiet. Looking down at his arm in the dimly lit room he saw wires and tubes connected to it and couldn’t contain the gag working its way up his throat.

“N-Nu-Nurse! Nurse!” He began yelling and not long after, a short man dressed in scrubs entered the room.

“Mr. Brendt, how are you fee-“

“Unho-Unhook m-me from th-this machi-m-machine,” Lincoln spoke impatiently.

“Oh I’ll have to make sure you’re well enough to-“

“If y-you don’t I w-will,” he threatened, holding his hand over the tubes which caused the nurse to come over quickly and begin unhooking him, bandaging the small patch where his incision was. With shaky legs, he stood up and left the room. He sighed in relief realizing he was just across the hall from Mallory, walking the short distance with legs that seemed to forget how to move.

Regardless, he found his seat left exactly where it had been when he left, and his coffee cups untouched in their stacks of five because five was a good number five made good things happen. Tapping his finger against his knee repeatedly he counted them out.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Day 9:

Lincoln was laying in a bed, prepped for surgery after having kissed all of his sisters on the top of the head and waving a goodbye before he walked into the prep room.

“You’ll have to lay down for at least two days. And then for about four weeks, maybe six, you’ll need to take all physical activity to a minimum, no lifting more than 10 to 15 pounds, we don’t suggest intercourse during the recovery time, all around you’ll have to be careful standing long periods of time and take care of yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Abs-Absolutely.”

“I know there aren’t a lot of other options but I don’t want you to do this and regr-“

“Just take me back.”

“There’s a chance we may still lose h-“

“TAKE ME BACK!” Lincoln shouted. He was uninterested in hearing anyone talk about possibly losing Mallory.

“Okay…” The doctor still sounded hesitant, but the nurse who was pushing his bed had been there when Mallory’s kidneys began to fail. So had Lincoln. Within hours and a few tests that showed he was, remarkably, a match, the boy was in a hospital bed being rolled into surgery.

As he was pushed into the sterile, cold procedure room, he rolled his head to the side to see Mallory’s pretty blonde hair.

“Abou-out t-time I paid you back f-for saving me,” he whispered before they turned his head back upwards and placed a mask over his face.

“Okay dear, just count back from 10,” said a nice woman just behind his head.

He didn’t even make it to 8.

Day 11:

Lincoln could walk again, but instead he sat next to Mallory’s bed right where he always did. He thought he remembered Jean and Eddie thanking him over and over for what he did. He also thought it was silly for anyone to think he wouldn’t have given up both of his lungs and heart and liver and everything he had to give if it meant she would be brought back into the world.

He didn’t remember what being a person felt like anymore. He didn’t remember any sensations other than fear and panic and anger and exhaustion. He didn’t remember having any intentions other than to keep fighting while the love of his life did the same.

His sleep came in waves that day, brought on by the pain meds he still took every few hours. Between the periods of darkness when his mind finally escaped reality, Lincoln wrote poems upon poems upon poems. Desperate for the right words that might bring her back.

“Y-You just keep… k-ke-keep r-resting, L-Lov-Love. B-But pl-please come b-bac-back… I-I-I n-nee-need you…”

Sleep took him away again, unwanted but still appreciated, and in his dreams that night there was nothing. Emptiness, surrounded by nothing but pitch black. It was a welcome escape from the fear and sadness that had wracked his body every waking minute.

Day 12:

A man came in holding a bible.

Lincoln to the side, slightly numb to the whole experience but he was aware of what was happening. They were blessing Mallory, so if she did die, she would go to heaven. It caused his stomach to lurch, the idea that people were making preparations in the case of her death.

Lincoln had arrangements of his own, but he didn’t want to share those plans with anyone else.

“F-Father?” Lincoln has found himself following the man out of the room, limping slightly. “C-Can I as-ask you s-someth-something?”

The man turned around and faced Lincoln with a smile.

“Of course, how can I help you?”

“W-Well I-I um… so-s-so I’m n-not a v-ver-very re-r-relig-ligious p-perso-person, I don’t kn-know how it w-work-works ex-exactly but cou-c-could you t-tell G-Go-G-God s-someth-something for m-me?”

The man’s expression was patient as he nodded.

”What is it, Son?”

”I-I w-wan-wanted… I’ve w-wanted a f-fam-famil-mily my… who-whole l-life… b-but if…if-if Mal-M-Mallory c-c-co-comes-s b-back I will gi-g-give up my dr-drea-dream. He’ll n-nev-never h-hear me wi-w-wish for my own s-son or dau-d-daughter again. C-Coul-d y-you te-t-ell h-him that?”

The man’s face went from patient to devastated as Lincoln finished speaking.

”Oh, Dear boy, you poor thing…”

”I-I don’t want-t-t y-your pit-ty… Pl-Plea-ease j-just tell h-him?”

The man nodded, reaching out his hands to take Lincoln’s. Lincoln barely enjoyed physical contact from a stranger under normal circumstances and these circumstances were far from normal. So he flinched away, curling his hands into his chest.

“I’ll tell him,” the man said, taking his own hands back.

With a satisfied nod, Lincoln disappeared to return to Mallory’s bedside.

Day 14:

Lincoln had to fight for the first time to keep Mallory on for just a couple more days. At that point, the only thing keeping her alive was the machine she was relying on for a heartbeat.

“P-Pl-Please-Please I-I’ll p-p-pa-pay f-fo-f-for-r it plea-p-p-p-pl-please ju-j-j-jus-j-just a c-cou-c-c-couple m-mo-m-more d-da-d-days!”

His frantic voice swayed Mallory’s grandparents, agreeing to just a couple more days. Lincoln knew that in a couple more days if Mallory wasn’t awake he’d fight again and again until he had no fight left in him. Lincoln was stitching together the many loose pages on which he’d written countless poems during his time there.

He figured that when she woke up she’d want to read them. It was a rare day for Lincoln, meaning it was one in which he was actually aware of the world beyond the four walls that boxed him into that room or beyond the line of vision between he and Mallory.

Meaning when Mason Safaatauemana walked in with a pitiful look on his face, Lincoln had already lost patience for the boy who had found such disgusting delight in charming Mallory into a date ages ago.

“Hey, man,” he started as he took a few steps towards Lincoln who, had he had even a drop less of self control in his body, may have growled at him. “I just wanted to swing by and say I was sorry, you know. For everything.”

“L-Li-L-Like?”

“Like... I wish I’d been able to do something to save her, or to stop it all, you know? I’m just-“

Rage bubbled in Lincoln’s head, boiling so loudly he was deaf to any other words Mason was saying.

“A-Are you ki-k-Kidd-kidding?!”

“What-“

“Are you KIDDING?!” Lincoln stood up now, putting a hand over his side with a groan. “You’re going to take this moment right here, this moment in which the love of my life is laying in bed because a deranged madman shot her and you’re going to turn it into a situation in which you could have been the hero of the cards had fallen right?!”

“I’m sorry I-“

“You don’t get to be the hero in everyone’s story, Mason!! If anyone could have saved her it would have been ME!! There was nothing YOU of all people could do!”

The sleepless nights that made days blend together like wet paint left him exhausted and had caught up to him, making this seem catastrophic.

“I mean you, you just... you just run into people’s life and expect them to bend into whatever they need to be for you to fit with them. You never change to fit anyone! I changed to be your friend, to live with you, to get your stupid approval I change for EVERYONE I didn’t have to change for Mallory and you’re going to come in here saying you wish you’d been able to save her?!?”

Lincoln shoved Mason’s shoulders, all of the anger he’d ever felt towards the redhead coming out as he continued shouting.

“I mean seriously?! You ask her on a date just to try to fuck her and then you keep treating her and I like shit like we’re lesser than you because she didn’t want to fuck you and because I stutter and wasn’t one of your original friends!” Lincoln shoved him again and this time Mason held him back, keeping his hand on his shoulders to stop Lincoln from getting any closer. This only made Lincoln feel attacked and he swung, connecting his fist with Mason’s face.

“Lincoln, Lincoln stop,” Mason pleaded, trying to keep him away while also trying to calm him down. “You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to start this right now.”

“Stop telling me what I want to do! Nobody but me knows what I want to do!!!”

By then Mason had gotten them out into the hallway, away from the medical equipment and away from Mallory.

“I know what I want to do! You don’t and Lucy doesn’t and the nurses don’t! I don’t want to be here without Mallory don’t tell me what I want!”

Another swing, another fist slamming into Mason’s face. The redhead clenched his jaw, clinging onto reality so he wouldn’t blackout.

“Lincoln please, please I don’t want to blackout I could hurt you I could kill you!”

At the thought of Mason killing him, Lincoln punched him again, harder than before and this time in the gut.

“Then kill me! KILL ME!!!” Lincoln was screaming now, his voice shrill and drawing the attention of the other patients and some of the nurses. “Please, Mason if I’m your friend at all - if I’ve ever been your friend then kill me I don’t want to live without her I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t be me without her I would rather DIE!”

Another punch, this time in the side and Mason finally shoved him away, backwards and into the arms of Hunter, who sighed and lined a syringe up against Lincoln’s neck.

“Somebody please just kill me I don’t want to live without her please Mason, please please just do it promise me you’ll do it!” Even as he was stuck in the neck with medicine meant to sedate him, it took a few moments to work its way through his large body. “Mason I thought you were my friend please I just wanted you to kill me!” His words were sobs as his legs grew weak and Hunter enlisted Mason’s help in carrying him back into Mallory’s room.

Adam was long gone by then, and they lifted him into the bed right next to Mallory.

“Please,” his voice was a whimper as his eyes fought to remain open. “Someone just kill me...”

Day 15 - Evening:

Lincoln’s sanity was slipping again. After the breakdown the night before, it seemed to fall between his fingers like sand in a widespread hand. Slipping quickly, falling back towards the ground with nothing but gravity to stop it. He was sat in his chair when a nurse he didn’t recognize entered the room. She must have been new. That was okay, he told himself, Daisy wouldn’t let anyone but the best near his girl. He knew that much was true.

Still, as she acknowledged his presence with a nod and wave before going about refilling Mallory’s IV, Lincoln couldn’t do anything but rock back and forth in his still chair. His arms hugging his own chest like that could keep him together as he rocked.

“C-C-C’m-C’mon M-Ma-M-Mal-Mal... y-y-you don’t ha-h-have m-much time-ti-time l-lef-l-left... You nee-n-need to c-come ba-b-back to me...” He murmured over and over again as he stared at Mallory. The nurse looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

“You been waiting a while for her?,” she asked kindly. Lincoln didn’t respond. “Well you know, Darling, she can feel your stress. You can’t put too much pressure on her.”

It was as if someone had pressed the pause button on Lincoln’s life as the nurse spoke. He stopped rocking, stopped muttering things below his breath, stopped existing (at least it felt as if he had). He sat there unmoving as the nurse finished up. She bid him a good night that fell on deaf ears, as he held himself together desperately with his long arms.

As soon as he heard the door shut with a click, Lincoln began pounding his fist against his head, punching himself in the forehead repeatedly until the pain became a dull reminder of how much he had fucked up. By the time a bruise had started blossoming on Lincoln’s face, he was screaming. No words came out exactly, he was screaming in fury and anger and hatred, angry at himself, furious at himself, hating himself.

His screams reached frantic levels, the top of his lungs as he now began using both fists against himself.

“It’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault!!!” He screamed, even as he heard the door be thrown open and Harley stood there with sadness in her eyes. “IT’S MY FAULT TOO MUCH PRESSURE TOO MUCH PRESSURE IT’S MY FAULT SHES GOING TO DIE TOO MUCH PRESSURE!”

Blood began trickling out of his forehead now and Harley frantically begged Declan to come pull him away and make him stop.

“OH MY GOD I KILLED HER ITS MY FAULT TOO MUCH PRESSURE TOO MUCH PRESSURE ITS MY FAULT!!!!”

He was screaming so loudly now that his voice cracked and Declan entered the room, wrapping his large arms around Lincoln’s and prying his hands away from his head.

“IT’S MY FAULT MY FAULT MY FAULT!!!!!!!” He was sobbing through his shouts now as Declan pulled him out of the room and Lincoln spotted the nurse who had said that. “SHE SAID IT WAS MY FAULT SHE SAID THERES TOO MUCH PRESSURE I JUST WANTED HER TO KNOW I BELIEVED IN HER BUT ITS MY FAULT ITS MY FAULT SHE WON’T WAKE UP AND ITS ALL MY FAULT!”

The nurse looked devastated as blood continued spilling down Lincoln’s face. She couldn’t have known such a reaction would come out of such a mild mannered man.

“I’m sorry I-“ She started.

“MY FAULT MY FAULT MY FAULT!!!!!”

Eventually, Declan had wrestled him far enough away and locked him into a position which only exhausted Lincoln’s body if he tried to continue fighting. Instead of thrashing around anymore he became limp in the much bigger man’s arms and sobbed.

“I just wanted her to know I believed she would come back she’s running out of time it’s all my fault...”

Harley tried comforting him, using any words she thought may help but nothing changed how hard he cried. Not until he cried himself out in Harley’s arms (who had taken over once he’d stopped throwing his arms around).

“I-I-I-I c-ca-c-can-can’t b-be ar-a-arou-a-around her anym-m-more.”

“No Lincoln that’s not-“

“It’s m-my-my f-fau-f-fault I have t-to s-sta-s-stay away.”

Nobody said anything else, letting him sit there and cry himself dry until he eventually decided he’d sleep in the waiting room. “I ha-h-have to stay aw-a-away...”

Day 19:

It was the end. No amount of fighting from Lincoln would change her grandparents minds anymore. Something about wanting to end the suffering she was going through and making sure she got into God’s Kingdom. It wasn’t an answer he was willing to accept but nothing was when it came to ending the life of the one person he had no intention on living without. They delivered the news as soon as he’d woken up that morning, wrapped in a bundle of blankets outside of Mallory’s room so his presence hold risk her recovery.

All he remembered of his reaction was a scream so loud he no longer had a voice, only enough to croak out responses to people who spoke to him. He sat with his knees curled to his chest, tugging on his hair for hours as the world moved around him without him being present in it. People went in and out of Mallory’s room and Lincoln couldn’t do anything but watch their feet move past him.

Lily came up to him and sat beside him on the dirty ground.

“Big brother, what’s wrong? Why is everyone crying?”

Lincoln didn’t know if he was crying or not, his mind was desperate to shut down in order to protect itself.

“Mallory’s going away, Lil,” Lincoln barely got out past the scratches in his throat.

“Oh... Forever?”

Lincoln nodded, letting out a sob into his fist as he did. Lily threw her arms around him.

“Hey, Mallory always said that when something sad happened, something good would come right after, right?”

Another nod and another sob into his fist as he wrapped one arm around Lily. He didn’t want to give her up, he didn’t want to say goodbye to any of his sisters - in fact if anyone in the world would keep him there it would be them, but when he thought of a world without Mallory all he could see was himself wrapped up in a blanket on his mattress until he died of starvation or exposure or whatever it was people died from when they lay there unmoving for an endless amount of time, becoming nothing more than a vegetable, a burden on an already burdened family.

They sat there embracing until Eddie came over.

“Lincoln... If you... wanted to say goodbye.”

Goodbye.

The word washed over him like a tidal wave, pinning his body to the ground with some combination of horror and dread. Still, he stood up.

“H-He-Hey, go s-sit w-wi-with y-your si-s-sisters, L-Li-Lily, I’ll b-be out s-soo-s-soon.”

The young girl nodded, squeezing his waist before running off to sit with the other Brendt siblings.

“Take as long as you need,” Eddie said, squeezing Lincoln’s hand. Lincoln nodded, going into the room and shutting it behind him. He took his spot in the chair that, at that point, had become molded to his shape.

“I tried so hard, Baby,” he choked out through stutters and a hoarse voice, holding his hand tightly in his own. “I really tried so so so hard, I fought so hard to keep you here. I’m so sorry.” He was bawling almost immediately, barely able to get the words past his lips. “I just want you to be back here with me. I just want to hold you. I just want to kiss you and tell you how much I love you.”

His hands shook as he took the ring box out once more. “I know it’s probably selfish of me, to ask that you die with this on, but I don’t plan on being apart for long once you do, and I want you to have it in wherever there is after all of this.”

He slid the ring on her finger and cried as he held it to his lips, pressing kisses against her cold skin, perfect even as she neared death.

“Mallory I have so many things to thank you for and not enough time to say them all. Thank you for opening the door into my coffee shop that morning so long ago and walking into my life, thank you for changing the person I am, for making me a better - no the best version of myself. Thank you for holding my hand when it shakes and for finishing a game of mini golf with me when no one else ever has before. Thank you for sitting patiently with me as I try to spit out my order and for never being embarrassed by the person I am even though I’m embarrassed by the person I am. Thank you for being the one person in my life who knew how to fix all of the broken pieces of me, and thank you for not just knowing how to do it but for doing it. Thank you for loving a man who didn’t think of himself as worthy to be loved and thank you for kissing me even on the darkest days my mind had. Thank you for always seeing what was best for me and for doing it but mostly thank you for being the other part of me who I’ve been searching for for 22 years. For fitting every crooked edge and every shattered side I had. Thank you for completing me in a way I’ve never known.”

Tears were pouring down his cheeks as he pressed his lips against her forehead.

Once.

Twice.

A third, fourth and finally...

A fifth time.

“Please, Mallory, forgive me for what I am going to do when I leave this room. Find it in that beautiful soul to love me again even in death and to forgive me for being such a coward that I can’t live without you.” He was gripping her hand tightly now, sobbing into her hair.

“Forgive me for not loving you for every moment I could have, and for taking for granted the love you gave me. I never will again. Forgive me for breaking your heart in a way I’ll never forgive myself for. Please, Mallory, when I see you again open your arms to me so that we can be together again.”

As he squeezed her hand, he could swear she squeezed back but he knew that wasn’t possible - that such things only happened in dreams or movies or books.

“This is not my goodbye, it isn’t,” he said adamantly. Tears fell onto Mallory’s porcelain face, dripping off of his cheeks. “I will see you again but in the meantime I love you I love you I love you.” He repeated the words over and over again, sobbing them out as he held her hand to his lips.

He felt another squeeze, this time a bit more real. Maybe even a real one.

“I love you I love you I love you,” he continued, his eyes trained on her face now, looking for any signs of movement. Her cheek twitched, as if she wanted to brush away one of the tears there on the skin. “Mallory?!” He reached out, wiping her face clear of his tears. Her lip moved now. He must be dreaming or dead already. There was no way this could be happening. “Mallory, Baby, Baby if you’re there I need you to do something baby, Mallory are you there?!” He watched as her eyelashes fluttered, as if they wanted to open. He let out a desperate sob, punched himself in the leg to see if he was awake. He was. “Mallory, Baby that’s it, that’s it please, Mal, please I just need to see your eyes.”

He gripped her hand with nearly white knuckles, whispering please over and over to herself. Then, there they were. Her blue eyes blinking against the light of the room. Lincoln fell backwards, tripping over the chair and landing with a THUMP on his butt, he scrambled back up.

“You did it, oh my god you did it you came back, Baby I knew you’d come back oh my god you’re so strong you’re so strong!” Lincoln was sobbing, kissing Mallory’s hand once more before rushing towards the hallway. Before he ran out, he took one last glance at Mallory. “I’ve missed your eyes,” he whispered before disappearing into the hall.

“Do-D-Doctors-s-s! Nur-N-Nu-Nurses! G-Go-G-God-d-d!!! Whoe-Wh-Whoever will li-l-liste-l-listen!!!” A crowd of people, most of them his friends and a few others were nurses and a doctor who’d run to see the commotion. “Sh-She’s ali-a-alive.”

With those words, so much relief flooded through his body that he fell limp to the floor as cheers erupted around him and the doctor, along with the nurses, ran past him into Mallory’s room. He slipped into unconsciousness with the first genuine smile he’d had in 19 days.

#( Self Para )

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jadehqknb · 7 years ago

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Dating Prompt - #56 Poetry Reading – Asahi Azumane

Asahi-kun has been acting nervous all day. Well, more nervous than usual, fidgeting in his seat and casting glances at you and blushing for no apparent reason. You have to stifle a giggle when the teacher asks if he has to go to the bathroom and he turns a deep crimson as he shakes his head no. When the bell for the end of class finally rings he’s up on his feet and out the door in a flash.

“What’s up with him?” your friend asks as you shoulder your backpack.

Normally you would say he was just eager to get to volleyball practice, there is a big game coming up after all, but his behavior doesn’t seem to match that. He was definitely affected by you for some reason. It’s true the two of you have been sort of dancing around one another lately, your acquaintanceship moving to friendship through after school study sessions and more recently you’ve been getting the impression that he may like you. Which thrills you to the core because you really, really like him, but you’re way too nervous to say anything.

When you reach the exit gates of the school you’re surprised to see Noya-san holding onto Asahi-kun’s shirt in clear effort to get him to stay put. The sight makes you giggle as you call out, “Hey guys, what’s going on?”

Asahi-kun freezes, his eyes widening at your sudden appearance. Apparently he and Noya-san are in the middle of an argument because the short libero hisses, “Do it now!” When the ace shakes his head his pint size friend smacks his arm. “Be a man, or so help me I’ll do it for you, you big chicken.” Satisfied that his threat carries enough weight on its own, Noya-san waves to you before jogging back towards the gym.

“Aren’t you going to practice, Asahi-kun?” you ask, unsure what’s going on with your friend.

“Um, yeah,” he says haltingly scratching the back of his head, “I, uh, I just wanted to…” he stops, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he opens then again he meets your gaze and says in a rush, “Areyoubusyfridaynight?”

“What?” you ask, unable to make out the jumbled sentence.

Rubbing his head he tries again, this time with a deep blush on his cheeks. “Are…are you busy this Friday night?”

“No, why?”

He looks to the side, mumbling out, “I, uh, was wondering if you’d like to go to this new little café I found near my house. It’s nothing big, or anything, just a cool place…I…I thought you’d like it.” He ends his invitation by finally meeting your eyes again.

You smile and nod. “I’d love to Asahi-kun, should I meet you there?”

“Um, no, I’ll pick you up,” he says hastily but you frown. Didn’t he say the café was near his place? What good would it do for him to come all the way to your place and pick you up?

“Asahi-kun, you don’t have to-“ you begin but he interjects.

“I’d like to _______-chan, it…I’m not asking to just hang out.” He doesn’t go on, but you’re pretty sure this is a date request.

Smiling again you say, “Ok then, what time will you pick me up?”

He smiles back faintly, his breathing finally a normal pace. “Does 7:00 work?”

“That’s perfect. See you tomorrow at school, have a good practice!” you say cheerily as you wave and walk towards home.

The rest of the week crawls by as you become more eager for your date with Asahi-kun but you’re trying not to read too much into it too soon. It may be that he just wants to try this out, see if maybe you’d work as a couple. The thought is both exciting and scary because what if he realizes he doesn’t really like you enough to actually date you? Will things be awkward after this? Your own anxiety starts to creep up but you push it down. Asahi-kun is a kind boy, he wouldn’t do something like this just to do it, so he must feel something for you...right?

Finally the night arrives and you’re a jumble of nerves, your only saving grace knowing that Asahi-kun is probably a bigger mess than you are. When he arrives promptly at 7:00 and you open the door you see you’re right; he looks a little pale as he thrusts a small bouquet of white daisies at you. Taking them to the kitchen you set them in a vase before returning to your date, finally taking in his appearance. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and black sweater, but still manages to look absolutely gorgeous.

You walk to the train station to take the line back to his neighborhood, the two of you finally falling into normal casual conversation like you usually have because you are friends after all. Once you reach your destination, Asahi guides the two of you to the café. It’s a quaint little shop and when you walk in your overwhelmed by the smell of delicious coffees and baked treats.

The two of you get in line to pick your drinks and food, Asahi-kun adamantly insisting he pay since he asked you to come and what gentleman wouldn’t pay for his date’s food? Once you have your items the two of you sit down at a quiet corner table, talking in low tones about this, that and the other, but he’s beginning to look nervous again, his eyes continually straying over your head. When you turn to see what he’s looking at all you can see is a clock on the wall. Is he hoping the date will be over soon? You thought you were both having a good time.

When you turn back around he’s got an odd look on his face but before you can ask what’s wrong you hear someone clearing their throat over the sound system. Turning back around you see someone dressed all in black talking. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to open mic night. Most of you who are planning on sharing tonight have already signed up but if you have something you’d like to contribute our sign up is at the back. Now, without further ado, our first amateur reader tonight is Azume Asahi.”

Your eyes widen till you think they’ll pop out of your head as polite, quiet applause accompanies Asahi-kun while he makes his way to the front of the room. The lights are dimmed in the main area, a spotlight fixed on a stool and stand next to the now open mic. You had no idea Asahi wrote anything outside of school work and poetry no less.

Turning your chair around you fix your eyes on him. When he gets settled he lifts his gaze and focuses solely on you. Slowly it’s as if the rest of the room completely disappears and it’s just the two of you here in this moment. Your heart is pounding with anticipation and a little nervousness on his behalf. Who knew the timid ace wouldn’t have stage fright?

He takes out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolding it. The creases show he’s had this for a while, folding and unfolding it over and over. Clearing his throat, he says, “This is entitled “The Hero” and it’s dedicated to ______-chan.” You inhale sharply as he begins to read.

The Hero

Fear has been my constant companion

I look both ways twice and then again

Risk is hard, it makes my chest ache

Taking a chance, my knees will shake

People don’t seem to understand

You can’t tell all by a person’s hands

Ridiculed for my stature and age

It just felt easier to remain backstage

But then you came around and shown your light

You’re a brave new world that I can’t fight

In the midst of your torrent, you still bring me peace

You make me feel confident, assured and at ease

I know it’s supposed to be the other way around

But I believe a hero in a woman can be found

And you are mine, though you’ve never known

You’ve taken my hand and helped me up off the ground

I can never repay you for the kindness you’ve shown

Your care and consideration are gifts of value untold

So here is my heart, to have and to hold

He ends with a sigh, a weight seemingly lifted from his broad shoulders. As the audience claps you feel tears trailing down your cheeks. Asahi-kun reaches your table, his face full of concern at first but when you smile he returns it. Without a word you stand up, throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely. He returns the embrace, his strong arms tight around your waist and the café erupts into larger applause at your display. Ignoring your fiery cheeks and butterfly filled stomach you pull back and look up into his face.

“I accept,” you say making him smile widely. Leaning down he gives you a sweet, chaste kiss on the cheek, so very Asahi-kun. When he goes to pull away you place your hands on the back of his head pulling him until your lips meet. You can feel the flush of his face but you don’t care; he’s yours and you don’t care who sees it.

#Asahi #date prompt #request #yes I wrote the poem

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lizzy-matthews · 8 years ago

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Challenge 1

In the land of Aroria, the people are born with a single butterfly in their stomach. The butterfly does the Arorian no harm, it is simply a part of the Arorian. As the Arorian gets older, the butterfly begins to multiply, becoming two, then three, then so many butterflies that they fill the stomach of the Arorian. Again, the butterflies do not harm the Arorian, it is a peaceful and symbiotic relationship for the most part. The Arorian provides the butterflies with food and nourishment. In return, the butterflies act as a sort of warning system. When something bad is about to happen, the butterflies begin to swarm around, causing slight discomfort for the Arorian. Conversely, if something exceptionally good is about to happen, or the Arorian is about to try something new, the butterflies will react similarly. Humans have adapted the saying “butterflies in the stomach” in regards to a nervous feeling based off of the Arorian phenomenon of having actual butterflies in their stomachs.

I groan. Even my writing is starting to sound ridiculous. I’m nervous about my date with Prince Haiden today. So nervous that I’m writing ridiculous stories about the origins of phrase “butterflies in your stomach”. Because I definitely have butterflies in my stomach now. Haiden is supposed to come to my room to get me so we could go on our date, and then I will tell him the plan for the date, since I’m responsible for figuring out what exactly it is we’ll do. I pace back and forth in my room, agonizing over whether or not my date plan is good.

Haiden is going to get here any second, and I can’t help but doubt myself. I mean, he’s got thirty girls here to choose from, why would he ever fall for me? I finally decide that I can’t take waiting in my room any longer. I have to go outside. Hopefully at least a change of scenery will help my patience. And I’ll also be able to see Haiden sooner, so that should help, too. I step out of the room and softly shut the door behind me.

I brush down some wrinkles in the skirt of the short blue dress I’m wearing. I’d decided to wear something a little more casual than the dresses they’d had us wear to meals so far. The dress is really pretty, and I’m so glad that my maids had been able to perfectly create the dress I’d imagined in my mind. Because I had certainly already imagined everything that would happen on this date several times. That’s what I did. I always let my imagination get the better of me. I know, to some extent, that the date won’t be as perfect as I’d imagined, but I still can’t help but hope. Maybe it will be fantastic. Maybe Haiden will sweep me off my feet and be the Prince Charming I’ve always dreamed of.

I check the time on a nearby clock again, wondering when Haiden will arrive. He has to be coming soon, right? He’ll be here in no time. He may be running a little late, but that’s no big deal. He’s the prince; he’s a busy guy. And it isn’t like I’m anyone special who deserves special treatment over whatever important thing he is likely doing.

I close my eyes and let out a sigh. I need to calm myself down. I’m freaking out about nothing. When I open my eyes, Haiden is walking down the hallway toward me.

“Were you waiting for me?” He asks.

I hesitate. This is the Prince of Illéa talking to me. Surely there is a proper way to speak. And I definitely shouldn’t say that I was waiting for him like some kind of lonely puppy, right? “No, I wasn’t waiting,” I answer. “I mean, I was obviously waiting, but it’s no big deal. I’m sure you were doing something important. I was just getting impatient.” I sigh. Way to go, Lizzy, you sound like a spastic freak.

Haiden lets out a small nervous laugh. “Okay, well sorry to keep you waiting. So, what would you like to do for our date, Lady Elizabeth?”

My nose twitches at the formal name. I rarely accepted being called Elizabeth, and adding ‘Lady’ to it doesn’t make it any better. “You can call me Lizzy. And I was thinking...” I pause, doubting my whole plan. “But maybe it's not such a great idea for a first date... but I was thinking maybe since we're both writers that we could share some of our writing. I'd love to see some of the stuff you've written, and I love people reading my writing, so... but if you don't want to share any of your writing we could just talk about other books and stuff we like.” I let out a breath as I finish speaking, realizing I’d said the whole thing in one nervous breath. I just don’t know how he’ll react to my idea, and I can’t get over my nerves.

“Um, yeah, I suppose so. I mean, stuff I have on hand. Would the library be okay? Did you bring your writing with you?” Haiden responds. I’m so relieved that he hasn’t immediately shot down the idea that I almost don’t hear anything else he said. I mean, he hadn’t seemed too enthusiastic about it, so I’m still not sure it was the best thing I could’ve come up with. I’d just wanted to do something that we had in common, and might be a little different than what the other girls were doing. I know we’re both writers, and I thought we could share that together.

“Yes,” I finally answer. “I have some of my writing with me.” I hold up the notebook I’d brought with me for proof.

“Great, I’ll send a butler to pick up my folder.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and I gratefully slip my arm through his as he begins to lead me toward the library. “So when did you start writing?” He asks.

I think about it for a moment. “I don't really know when I started writing. I feel like I've just always been writing something. There's actually a little homemade book in some box in my house that I made for my grandfather when I was three. What about you? When did you start writing?”

“I think I wrote my first real story when I was 11 or so, but I'd been writing little picture books long before that. I was writing even before I liked poetry so it's very important to me.”

I’m happy that he isn’t just into poetry. Poetry has never really been my thing; I prefer prose and fiction. Again, I get a little thrill at the thought of having something in common with the prince.

“I love my writing because it lets me create new worlds that I'll never see in real life. And I like creating characters that are just so different than myself. It's like I can be a different person, but without actually changing myself,” I admit. I shake my head, realizing that might sound crazy, or like I don’t like myself the way I am. “Sorry, that probably doesn't make any sense.”

“No, I get it. It helps me in the same way. When I write, I can be brave or strong, I can be confident and compassionate. I can be the complete opposite of who I am.”

I give a little shake of my head. “I have a hard time believing you’re the opposite of all that.” I mean, he’s the prince, obviously he’s brave and confident for standing in front of crowds to give speeches. He’s compassionate to his subjects, and he’ll make an amazing king someday, I just know it. And he’s strong enough to stand up to his morals and beliefs in the way he presents himself on a tv screen. I already know all that about him, and I’ve barely even met him.

Haiden gives a small laugh. “Well, be prepared to find out how wrong you are.”

My breath catches in my throat as I think about what he’s just said. Obviously he just said it in passing, so it doesn’t mean anything, but he kind of just said I’ll be here at least a little while longer. He’s not throwing me out just yet. “Well, I mean, I hope I'm here long enough to find out. Not to find out that you're a horrible person, I mean. I hope I'm here long enough to prove you wrong.”

“I don't know, I'm pretty boring, so I'd be surprised if you found anything. Did you know I'm the least talked about prince ever because I'm so dull to the media that they don't even bother to create fake news?”

“Well, I'm sure you wouldn't want them to be bothering you about every little thing you do. So maybe it's a blessing. And ‘dull’ to the media doesn't necessarily mean ‘dull’ to real people. I mean, the media just wants to say bad things about everyone. If you don't do anything bad, you're dull in their eyes. If you're genuinely a good person, you're dull in their eyes. I'd take it as a compliment that they think you're dull.” I’ve already had my own altercations with Exposing Illea. I’m proud to say that I’m considered ‘dull’ in the media’s eyes too. But not dull enough not to have fake news about me, apparently, because Exposing Illea did have fake news about me. But it’s only happened once, so I guess the other girls have been deemed more interesting by the media.

“Excellent point, I suppose. What would you describe yourself as?” Haiden asks.

“In one word: a dreamer. And that's probably not such a good thing. I like to create fictional scenarios about everything in life, which is great as a writer, but frustrating as a human because nothing ever goes the way I imagine it will. I'm a total hopeless romantic, and it's honestly such a problem,” I admit. I can’t believe I’m telling him all this about myself. I mean, obviously if we’re going to have any sort of future or relationship together we’ll have to know about each other, but I don’t need to scare him away on the first date by calling myself a hopeless romantic. That stuff scares guys, right?

“Really? What did you imagine me as, then?” He asks, and I’m so surprised that he doesn’t seem too worried about me being a hopeless romantic.

I blush. “I don't know. I mean, the media doesn't really say a whole lot about you, so I always imagined that you were more quiet, or at least not as... out there? I don't know if that's the best phrase... as your father was. I imagined you as super romantic, like the type of guy who would set up a candlelit dinner for a girl, or pick out a flower for her hair. I imagined... well, the two of us... sitting by a fireplace reading together. Not talking, but in a companionable silence.” I stop myself from saying anything else. I can’t believe I just said all that. “I'm sorry... this is so embarrassing.” Especially since I’d kind of just projected my imaginings of the perfect boyfriend onto him. Obviously Haiden wasn’t perfect, so I should just stop fooling myself into thinking he is.

Haiden scratches the back of his head. “No, it's uh, very endearing actually. And you got a lot right.”

I stop moving for a moment, and since our arms are entwined, Haiden gets pulled back by me, too. He just said I got a lot of it right. I’d been describing my perfect image of a significant other. I think I may have forgotten how to breathe. “Wait, really?” I ask breathlessly in a quiet voice.

“Yeah, I would totally set up a candlelight dinner for a someone, catch something on fire probably and totally freak out as she put it out. And then we'd both start laughing and decide to just raid the kitchen for stuff we could eat and run away when Chef Baguette comes in. But in the end, yeah I guess you did get something right. I am definitely a hopeless romantic.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He really is perfect. “Well maybe if you knew something was going to catch on fire, you wouldn't freak out so much. But wow... I just... I can't believe you're so much like how I dreamed you'd be.” I need to get myself out of this mindset quickly, or else my heart will literally, irreparably break when he inevitably sends me home.

“What can I say? I’m predictable. But don’t worry. There’s lots of stuff to find out.”

“Well good. I just hope you give me the chance to find out all that... stuff. And there's nothing wrong with being predictable anyway. I'm sure I'm super predictable all the time. I think I'm pretty much an open book. Everyone seems to know exactly what I'm like after they just meet me once.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Haiden consoles.

“Oh yeah? Give it a try. What are a few things you can infer about me after just meeting me? And then I'll tell you if they're true or not.”

“Um, yikes putting me on the spot. Uh, you like jello, sneakers are your favorite, and you find sunsets beautiful.”

“No to the first, but yes to the rest. Pretty good, two out of three.”

“Those were very basic. Surely you’ve got some secrets.”

“Hmmm... I once ate a half batch of cookies when I was supposed to save them for my brother. But that's probably not the kind of secret you were looking for.” It seems like everyone is trying to get to know my secrets, and it’s a little uncomfortable. Is this what it would be like if I do become queen? Because that is definitely something that would take some getting used to, if I even could get used to it.

Haiden gives a little laugh. “No dark secrets at all?”

Again, I’m a little incensed at people trying to find out secrets about me that just aren’t there. I’m not one of those girls who’s thrown herself at men or drugs or anything crazy. I’ve never had a dark phase where I wouldn’t listen to my parents. I truly am dull. I don’t understand why no one will believe me. I give Haiden a little smirk, wanting to get back at him for being so unrelenting about my secrets. “I’m secretly a werewolf.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Just kidding,” I joke, hoping for some kind of reaction, and getting none. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything really dark about me. My life has been really easy, no hardships in the family or anything. I’ve never had to struggle for anything in life, like some of the people in lower castes,” I continue. “I’ve never had any relationships that would cause any sorts of problems. I mean, I’ve never had any romantic relationships period, so…” Again, I can’t believe I said that I’ve never had a romantic relationship. I probably sound so embarrassingly innocent and naïve. I’m sure Exposing Illea would have a field day mocking me for this. But I’ve just always spent my life looking for the perfect guy, and no one I’ve met has been perfect, so I never really gave them a chance. Not that anyone back home had any interest in me anyway. I mean, why would they? I never did anything interesting.

“Hey, that’s good. Dark secrets may be interesting, but they’re not always fun.” I’m again so relieved he thinks that way. I was a little worried that he was looking for a girl who’s had an interesting past, which is something I certainly don’t have. “But I always like asking just in case. So, uh, have you always been a good child? Never had a rebellious stage?”

“I mean, I never had a rebellious stage in the typical sense. I just mess around with my brother every once in a while. But I’ve never done anything too serious. What about you? Has the ‘quiet prince’ ever done anything bad that the press didn’t hear about?” I want to get the conversation switched over to be about him so he’ll hopefully stop digging for my nonexistent secrets.

“Plenty of things,” he admits. “Nothing too bad, of course, but things happened. And my parents were not happy.”

My eyes widen in surprise, and I gasp, needing to know what happened. “Like what?”

Haiden hesitates before admitting, “I had a goth phase.”

I gasp even louder. “Oh my gosh, you did not!” I know my voice is raised, and I really hope no one heard me.

“Nope, I did. Even pierced my own ears. Now that was a bad idea.”

“Please tell me there are pictures.” I can’t believe he’s told me this secret. It’s like something special we now share. Unless he’s told every other girl he’s been on a date with, just to make each of us think we’re something special, getting in on one of Haiden’s secrets.

“How do you think I got into poetry?” Haiden asks.

“Wait, are your ears still pierced, or did they close up? And I don’t know… plenty of people are into poetry. Plenty of people who didn’t have a goth phase first. Anyway, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

“Both of the piercings closed up, but I still have two on my right upper cartilage.”

“Wow.”

“And please, no one would believe you.”

“I mean, Exposing Illea is looking for gossip on anything. The word could spread, and even if people didn’t believe it immediately, after so many people talking about it, they’d start to think it’s true. It’s how gossip works. Most of it’s not true, but it creates doubt in people’s minds until they think it’s true.”

“Very deep, Lady Elizabeth.”

I give him a little glare at the formality. “Lizzy,” I correct. “And thank you. I mean, I am a writer. I can get really deep.”

He laughs a little. “Very true. But really, I don’t care. The media would have a field day.”

“No, I’ll keep it a secret. It’s not my place to expose people’s secrets like that. And I kind of like the idea that I know something about you that no one else knows.” At least, I hope no one else knows it.

“Me too. And besides, maybe someday I’ll show you pictures.” Again, he’s talking like I’ll be at the palace for a while. I really hope he hasn’t just done this with all the girls.

“I would seriously love that.”

“They’re locked away where no one can find them, along with my other awful phases as a person.”

“Wow. A secret stash of Haiden’s history. That’s like a double alliteration right there.”

“That’s what I am. Always.”

“An alliteration?” I ask, a little confused.

“Of course.”

“Wait what do you mean?” How can a person be an alliteration?

“I’m the same but different. I don’t know, I’m trying to be deep yet failing.”

“An alliteration means it starts with the same letter. I think you’re thinking of an oxymoron or something.” And he’s supposed to be the one good at poetry? I kind of want to mock him about it, but that would be rude.

He lets out a nervous laugh. “I know, I know. I’m not smart when I’m nervous. Uh, well, uh, here’s the library.”

I gasp as he opens the door to the library. I haven’t been in here yet, but I should’ve found it earlier. It’s huge. It’ll take me forever to get through all these books. I should’ve started as soon as possible, since I don’t know how long I’ll have to spend here. I look back at Haiden as we sit at one of the tables. “So, you’re nervous?”

“Of course I’m nervous. My entire existence is nervousness.”

“I was going to say you shouldn’t be nervous all the time, but that would be kind of hypocritical, since I get nervous a lot, too.” I smiled to myself, realizing we have another big thing in common.

“Nervous is my middle name, I’m afraid. My parents never understood why, but even as a kid I was always super shy and awkward.”

“Yeah, me too.” I hold out the notebook of my writing that I’d brought. “Umm… so I have my writing here, but it’s totally fine if you’re…” I pause and give him a taunting smirk. “Too nervous to show me yours.”

“Oh, really? Well, I’ll just read it then. You aspire to be a writer? Have you ever pursued publishing?”

“I’ve thought about it. But I’m always worried that my writing isn’t good enough to be published. But I’ll have to send something in to publishers if I actually want to make a career out of it. Which I need to do, since I’m not really good at much else. I don’t know what else I could be if I wasn’t a writer…”

“Hm, you could be an English teacher or an editor maybe? I’m sure there are plenty of jobs you’d be great at.”

I slouch in my chair a little. “I guess…”

He laughs. “Probably not what you wanted to hear.

I shrug. “You know, maybe I was kind of hoping you’d say something more like ‘No! Your writing is great! You’re the best writer ever and should totally send your writing in to publishers!’ But maybe you’re not as perfect as I thought you were,” I tease and give a little smirk to show I don’t really mean it.

He laughs again. “I didn’t say it was bad! I just naturally give people unsolicited advice. But really, I do like your writing a lot.”

I blush at his compliment. “Thank you.”

“Ask me something, Lady Elizabeth,” he says, changing the subject. I almost correct him on the formalities again, but it’s just getting tedious.

“Something? Like what?” I ask.

“Anything you want to know. I’m trying this thing called opening up. “He laughs to himself. “I thought it’s be nice to give it a try.”

I think about what to ask. “I don’t really know what to ask. Umm… how have some of your other dates gone?” I’m kind of curious to see how our date compares to the others. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Some were boring, some weren’t. Fairly well, I think, when I’m not a nervous wreck the whole time.”

I don’t really know what to make of that. “Ok. Alright, now you ask me something.”

“How do you think this date is going?” He asks.

I hesitate to answer for a minute. I think it’s going really well. I mean, he practically agreed that he was just like my image of a perfect significant other. But what if he thinks it’s boring? What if I’m boring, and he decides to send me home? Is it arrogant to say that I think the date is going well? Oh well, I’m going to say it anyway. “I think it’s going really well. Um, how do you think it’s going?”

“I think it’s going fine. Neither of us seem too nervous and the library is relaxing. Did you know you’re a relaxing person to be around?” He shakes his head as though regretting his words. “That sounds weird, but, uh…”

I rush to reassure him. “No, it’s not weird. I actually get that a lot. In my family whenever someone’s angry or upset about something, I’m the person they come to to vent. It means I get yelled at a lot, but they’re not yelling at me, they’re just yelling about whatever’s frustrating them. They all say that I help them through their anger, but I’m not really sure what I do to help.”

“Your presence probably just makes them comfortable. Hopefully I’ll never need to yell at you because someone made me mad, but it’s good to have that option open.”

I smile, glad to know I could possibly help him in that way in the future. “Well, if any of the other Selected ever make you mad, you’re welcome to come complain to me about them.” And it’ll also work to reassure me that he’s having problems with the other Selected. Not that I want him to have problems with the Selected, it would just be reassuring to know that I’m not the worst Selected in his mind.

“Offer goes both ways, Lady Elizabeth.” I smile at the sentiment, but frown inwardly at the formality once again. I’m slightly worried that he keeps forgetting to call me Lizzy because he just doesn’t care enough about me to remember.

“Lizzy. Call me Lizzy,” I correct again.

“All right, Lady Lizzy.”

“So… what about your writing?” I ask.

“Uh, well, I don’t have much to share.”

I sigh. “Okay… no worries.”

“It’s not you, I just… I don’t think there’s anything worth reading.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, but if you don’t want to show me anything right now, that’s fine. Maybe I’ll convince you some other time.”

“Yeah, maybe someday, but I don’t know. I know I said I was trying to open up, but it was never my strong suit.”

“Really, it’s fine. I can totally understand not wanting to share your writing.” No matter how much I wish he felt comfortable enough to show me his writing. “My writing is like a diary to me, and it’s taken me a long time to feel comfortable sharing it with people.”

He nods as though thinking about it. “Thank you for understanding. Unfortunately, I think we should head back, but I’ve had a great time with you.”

“I’ve had a great time with you, too.”

He walks me back to my room, and I’ve barely even had time to gather my thoughts before two of my maids, Lily and Hanna, rush into the room. They tell me there’s a sleepover going on in Lady Viola’s room. I’m not sure whether or not I want to go, but Hanna reminds me that I haven’t really spent a lot of time with the other girls, and I should go at least for a little while so nobody thinks I’m a total recluse who spends all her time by herself. Even if I am.

After I’ve been at the sleepover for a while, the girls start talking about their dates. Mila talks about how she and Haiden played piano on their date. Tracie talks about how her date wasn’t great, but it sounds better than mine. I can’t believe I’m freaking out so much about the date after it’s already over, but I can’t help it. My date really was pathetic, wasn’t it?

I can’t breathe in the small space of Viola’s room. I leave and start pacing around the palace. I spot Haiden up ahead and before I can think about what I’m doing, I’m in front of him.

“Our date wasn’t lame, was it? I was talking to some of the other girls about their dates and now I feel like we didn’t do much and I kind of started panicking and I’m probably making it worse by freaking out on you like this but… I don’t know.” I can’t believe I just said all that. He probably thinks I’m an idiot. Maybe our date was perfectly fine, but now I’m going to be sent home because of this. I’m an idiot.

He gives a sympathetic smile, as though he pities me. “Lady Lizzy, hello. Um, well, I don’t know what to tell you. First, no, our date wasn’t ‘lame’. Other girls had other ideas, and you decided on yours, which is perfectly fine. I’m not going to eliminate you based on just that. Sure, it was a little awkward, but it usually is. Don’t worry about it, we’ll get other opportunities.”

So, basically, it was horrible, but he feels sorry for me so he’ll probably give me another chance. “Okay,” I think I answer before turning back and running back to my room.

I’ve spent the last half hour lying on my bed with millions of thoughts running through my head. Suddenly, I hear a knock on my door. I open it to find Sophie.

“Hey, Sophie, what’s up?”

“Not much. There isn’t much to do around here.”

“I’m actually glad you’re here. I’m feeling kind of weird about my date with Haiden. Like, I thought it went really well while it was going on, but now I don’t know…”

She tells me about her date with Haiden, and it just makes me realize that I really didn’t know that much about him. Apparently, he’d acted completely different on her date than he did on mine. Which one is the real Haiden? I have no idea, and it’s just upsetting me more.

Sophie finally says she should get going, she has to be back in her own room soon. I walk her out of my room and stand by the doorway.

I sit down just outside my door and look out at what I can see of the palace from here. It’s absolutely stunning, and I can’t imagine going back to Clermont after all this.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear him approach until he calls out my name.

“Lizzy?”

I’m so surprised to hear a male voice call me Lizzy that I look up.

“Hey, I’m Liam,” he says nervously. “Um, we went to school together. I don’t know if you remember me…”

I laugh. “Of course I remember you, silly. Why wouldn’t I?” We’d had a lot of classes together in school, and we were in the same year. Obviously I remember him, even if we never really talked.

“I mean, we never really talked. And you were always so focused on your writing, it usually felt like you didn’t notice anyone else around you.”

I sigh, realizing he’s confirming my worry that I had seemed like a total loner at school. He probably thinks I’m a loser. Maybe he is wondering why I hadn’t already been sent home. Obviously someone so introverted can’t be queen, right?

I shake my head softly as Liam sits down on the ground across from me. “Sorry. I just really like writing, and I guess I just didn’t make as many connections with people at school as I should’ve. It’s really good to see you, though. I mean, it’s weird seeing someone from home, but comforting, you know? I mean, you actually know me, not just what the media has shown of me so far in this competition.”

He lifts one side of his mouth in a half smile, his eyes looking deep into mine. “It’s good to see you, too, Lizzy. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name picked for the Selection. I mean… I didn’t know what to think.”

I sigh, lowering my gaze. “Right. Because why would someone like me enter my name into the Selection? I’m too much of an introvert to be queen. Or even think I could have a chance with the prince, is that it?”

“No!” He answers immediately. “It’s not that. I just… it’s just that…” He stops, as though unsure of how to say what he wants to say. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what I was going to say.”

I let out a deep breath, ready to be done with this sad conversation. Obviously Liam pities me just as much as everyone else in this palace. I stand up from my seat on the ground. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Liam. I should be getting some sleep now.” I turn and take a step back into my room.

As I shut the door behind me, I hear Liam sigh and say, “bye, Lizzy.”

I groan at myself as I fall back on my bed. Everyone thinks I’m pathetic, don’t they? At least the characters in my stories can be happy. I guess I’ll just have to forever live vicariously through them, won’t I? Since I obviously won’t win this Selection, and I’ll never find my own Prince Charming.

Oh well.

#mine #challenge #selectionoc #c1

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khymnal · 7 years ago

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10 Writing Questions: Tag Game

My best friend @homesteadhorner has decided to probe into my writing habits - Go check out his blog, it has some incredible works and tips for all you storytellers.

1. What’s your writing “comfort zone”?

I veer mostly towards freestyle poetry, as well as more “big picture” ideas. I’d ideally like to improve my skills of sitting down and writing a detailed exchange of dialogue between two characters, but right now, it’s easier for me to write drafts of scenes or the overall plot line of things. I think I thrive best in pieces that are more charming, endearing, humorous, lighthearted - at least when it comes to comics or characters. But my poetry actually swings on the other end of that, being very serious and personal.

2. What is the oldest WIP that you’re still working on? How has it changed since you first started it?

Oh shoot, mmmmmm there is this one piece that I’ve definitely put on the back burner for quite a while now. I don’t think I ever even had an official name for it, either. I have a handful of well-developed characters for it, though, and the plot has a lot to do with the concept of cheating death. You know how after a while when you haven’t touched a project and you go back to it with fresh eyes, you suddenly get new ideas? The more I think about it, I could probably make this into a comic even though it has darker, more serious undertones than my current project, Nightshade Inc.

3. What’s your go-to way of staying motivated?

Discussions. Not even kidding. I get the BEST ideas when I am talking to people about them - they just suddenly come up. If I don’t talk about what I’m working on or have some creative discourse with others, I’ll likely won’t even touch it. I also like to do a lot of little extra tidbits for my characters, like create playlists inspired by them and whatnot. Music helps a whole stinkin’ lot and has inspired many scenes and images in my head. You give me a vague song, I could write a novel about it.

4. What are your outlining methods? Do you outline at all, and if so, in what format and in how much detail?

My brother Jake helps me SO much with this. Easily maybe the most detail-oriented person I know when it comes to stories. He wrote a character sheet one time long ago that I’ve used/modified for my characters ever since. Right now, my google docs is chock FULL of different character sheets that cover any and all bases - their background, their appearance, their qualities, their relationships, their likes/dislikes... I also have a separate sheet for ideas that are more floaty and freeform without anywhere to land yet. That usually happens with plot/feelings/scene ideas. Outlining helps me put the puzzle pieces together a little bit.

5. What got you started writing? How long ago was it?

It feels like I’ve written forever. I just remember getting comments from teachers over the years despite my lackadaisical pursuits about how different my writing was. I can’t necessarily attest to that, but it made me feel so special and certainly encouraged me even when others have made me feel otherwise. The inspiration has come lately from friends that encourage me to let my ideas run wild. And tabletop games/DnD have helped immensely as well.

6. What book or author has been the greatest inspiration or influence on your life?

Todd LaBerge when it comes to poetry, all the way. Read his posts and his book, “Unwritten Letters to You” - I feel much safer sharing my pieces when I see those examples of sentimental, raw emotions exposed through text. On a completely different end, Lemony Snicket. I ADORE his writing and the creativity he uses in making a point or painting a picture is daring and astounding and I hope to use it in many other means. He’s maybe the most original writer I’ve ever read from.

Book-wise? “You Are Special” by Max Lucado. A children’s book that ruined my whole life and shows the power of analogies/metaphors through the story it paints. I literally wrote a college paper on it. And Francine Rivers and her book, “Redeeming Love”. I just finished this one and holy crap, the story it tells. Looking back, I keep thinking the book is written in first person when it isn’t. She is just that good at stirring up your empathy for how the a person is feeling internally and reacting externally.

P.S. Web-comic inspiration shout-outs to Camp Weedonwantcha and Bad Machinery.

7. What are your future plans for writing?

I would really, really like to eventually publish my comics. I so thoroughly enjoy doing them and I can truly say it’s something I love. But beyond that, just recently, I’ve begun to pursue a larger degree for Creative Writing in hopes that I might become a teacher someday and inspire others.

8. Is writing your main goal in life, or is there something more important to you?

I actually went to college for Theology. Right now, I direct the high school youth ministry at my church and I love it so. At the heart of hearts, that’s what I know I’m going to do throughout my life (not necessarily *youth* ministry, but just ministry in general - loving others, serving and shepherding them...) But if not for ministry, I wouldn’t be inspired to teach, let alone teach writing or encourage young people to use their gifts.

9. Have you ever done NaNoWriMo and would you ever want to (again)?

Hehe, no. Since my writing style is much more choppy and not necessarily something of a manuscript, I haven’t. But I just did my first Inktober this past year... I got maybe half of them done? That’s more than I’ve drawn in YEARS, though. It helps.

10. Do you share your work with anyone? How hesitant are you to share things?

Eheheh.. heh. Poetry? SUPER hesitant. Like I mentioned before, it’s very personal. I’ve shared too many things to the wrong people and it’s closed me off a bit on that end. As of the moment, I’ve only really felt comfortable sharing that stuff with @homesteadhorner because he understands the analogies and pictures I’m painting. That’s also been something I’ve struggled with - if I’m trying to explain something to someone, the idea might sound too vague or the concept might be missed until the finished product. It has hurt sometimes, but it motivates me even more to work on it. And pitching/explaining it has gotten... better. I’ve shared the concept of Nightshade Inc. with some people - a couple think it’s grand, but a few let it fall off their shoulders. I suppose that’s kind of the risk of putting it out there, but I’m incredibly proud of the progress it’s made and am slowly becoming more open and brave.

Tags: Anyone and everyone - tell me about what you’re working on!! I’d love to hear it, you closet creatives. Tag ya girl in it so she can read it and flood you with embarrassing compliments.

#tag game #writeblr #questions

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char27martin · 7 years ago

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For the Love of Writing: 25 Wordsmiths Explain Why They Write

[Can you impress us in 1500 words or fewer? Enter the Short Short Story Competition today! Deadline January 15, 2018]

Last month, we called for our readers to share the motivations behind their wondrous words and reasons behind their love of writing—via Facebook, the hashtag #WhyWeWrite on Twitter, and via a writing prompt. From hundreds of heartfelt responses, we sprinkled some throughout the February 2018 issue of Writer’s Digest—but saved even more to share here!

Note: The names associated with each response are usernames from the respective platforms on which our readers responded. If you recognize your work and would like to see this article updated with your real name or linked to your website, please let us know in the comments on this post.

Arianna Rostron

I am my characters and my characters are me, but we are very different versions of each other. I am not so brave as my detectives and elvish warriors, nor am I as witty and sly and beautiful as my cheerleaders and renegades. I write to become those versions of myself. I write to sink into those souls and skins and be reborn under a different, unfortunately fictional, sun. A sun that promises brighter fates and futures. I write to be reborn into my fictitious realms and universes, which hold adventure and magic and everything else that I lack.

I am an angsty teen with extravagant ideas that I condense and place onto a page. I realize my poems are dark and painfully real. I realize my stories are wild and far-fetched and very unrealistic, but these are the things that develop my style. Reality is cold and unforgiving. Writing, however, is anything you want it to be. Writing is freedom, love, bravery. Writing is death, pain and sorrow. Whatever direction you want your stories to go in. Writing is a way of forming thoughts into deep, magical words that pierce the human psyche.

I’ve always been obsessed with stories and how they are written and rewritten. I have considered myself a writer for a very long time. In elementary school, I was told by multiple teachers that I “have a gift.” Many of them thought I had been helped by my parents when we would receive writing assignments.

I remember in third grade, we were writing short stories that were maybe a hundred words long. It was the first story I’d written. Mine was about an undercover superhero named “Dead-man” and his dog, Mutton Chop. I was so proud when my teacher asked me to display it for all the parents to see at the open house. By the next year, I was writing up to four hundred words and by the time I was “graduating” from my elementary school in sixth grade, I was already planning to write a novel.

That first attempt at a novel, obviously, fizzled out quickly and I began leaning more towards poetry. Towards the end of seventh grade I ended up with one of my poems published in a book.

Writing is a way of escape. To break away from the suffocating and dreary world around me, or sometimes, to forever encase my sorrows amongst many others in a notebook or journal or diary. Writing, for me, is like the emergency exit of living. I write because I know that even when nobody will listen to me and hear my voice, the paper will never reject my pen.

When I write, my words can’t get twisted into something they are not. My words belong to me and, of course, anyone who wishes to read them. But they are still my words. I am an artist. I am a storyteller. I am a poet. I am an author. I am a writer.

Cosi van Tutte

Why do I write?

I write with the hope that my words and characters will make other people laugh and cry and cheer and hope and dream.

I write because the “All I Ask Of You” reprise from the Phantom of the Opera musical made me think “I want to write something emotional like this.” And I am always striving towards that goal.

I write for the sheer joy and fun of it. It is my way to relax at the end of every day. I write because if I don’t write, my stories will never be told. My characters’ voices will never be heard. And my worlds will remain unexplored.

Audratheauthor

I am a child of the 1970s who grew up in a blue-collar section of a New Jersey suburb. I clearly recall the first time I realized that the world saw me as different, as less than, because of the color of my skin. I remember how that one comment snatched me viciously out of my childhood bubble. I remember questioning my worth, even though my parents told me over and over again that nothing anyone says changes my worth, unless I let it. I didn’t know how to process this. I had so many emotions. So I sat down and wrote as fast as my little 8-year-old hands would let me. I remember how my rage poured out onto the page. I threw the paper aside and cried. Then I went outside to play. A few days later I happened to read what I wrote and I couldn’t believe those words came from me. That’s when I realized that there is this well of love and wisdom and acceptance deep inside me that knows exactly what to say to me when I am hurting or sad or just can’t seem to make sense of what is going on, but I can only hear what it wants to tell me when I write. So, I write to share my well with the world.

Gamingtheblues

The heart and soul of a writer lives in the words on the page, regardless of subject, intent, style or theme.

This has been my mantra, my understanding, of reading and writing for many years now. I believe that writing will tell you more about the writer than any words that ever come out of their mouths, whether the author wills it or no.

Writing like all forms of art, is ultimately about expression. The expression of thoughts, ideas, and emotion. Through reading and writing, we as humans can connect on a deeper level than what can be accomplished through almost any other means. Regardless of time, space, circumstance or any other typical barrier to empathy and understanding, there is truth on the page. You can feel my heart, see inside and understand the essential “me.” And I you …

A.B. Funkhauser

I came to writing later in life and only after a big-ticket moment that knocked everything into place. Suddenly, I had a lot to say and couldn’t stop saying it. All wonderful, because I’m a gonzo at heart, and gonzo characters can get away with so much more than I can in “real life.”

A.J. Kidding

I write, because I want to reach the end of my imagination and then break through it. Writing helps me lose or find myself, depending on what I need to feel, and when I need to feel it … it gives me the chance to live thousands of lives in thousands of realities, exploring every possible scenario no matter how grandiose or minuscule it might be. Through the order I put my words on paper, I can create everything and look from the eyes of it all.

To me, writing is a superpower like no other; it can be art, it can be a simple instruction or it can be a weapon. I write not because it gives me the power of a god, but because it makes me feel human. I write because I should, I write because I can, because I must. I have tried not writing on purpose, and I didn’t last long; writing is an itch that can be scratched only by itself. It’s a question and an answer at the same time. I write, because it helps me live, not simply exist. I love it. I hate it. I am disappointed in it, and I am also proud of it. Writing is a mental mirror, an extension of yourself that helps you communicate with the pure reflection of what your soul is.

I think, therefore I write.

Anonymous

Writing is fun. I love the challenge and excitement of sitting down at my computer (the panster writer in me) and allowing my imagination free rein to spill out a story. Isn’t imagination a wonderful thing? It’s also a great way to relive pieces of my life and weave them into a nonfiction or fiction story. I enjoy the adventure of panster writing, but I’m learning that plotter writing can be incredibly freeing as well.

Douglas E. Baker

I write because that is when I am most myself and least myself. I pick the subject from my mind and heart, I gather the words from my mind and ear, but I write from a stream that flows from beyond me or deep within me. I may hate to begin writing, I may love to have written, but I definitely live in the space between the two.

[6 Fiction Writing Exercises to Try When You’re Traveling]

Wassim Drissi

I write to discover myself. The words I put down tell the tale my speech can never seem to capture.

Tysheena Jackson

I think Victor Hugo summed up my writing experience when he said this: “A writer is a world trapped inside a person.”

Kerry Charlton

A bitter January wind swept across a cemetery just East of Weatherford, Texas.

My wife and four daughters walked a grassy knoll to Leslie‘s burial site. My fourth

daughter’s casket lowered quietly to a freshly dug grave. Tears came of course along with Leslie’s message which pounded my mind, “Dad, write about your life, we know so little about you. Please do it for me. Don’t worry, I’ll be safe with Jesus.”

I had written reports, business letters and memos for 40 years. I started, five

days later, to write about my childhood summers at Avalon, on the Jersey coast.

My writer’s voice, awkward and clumsy, described a young boy’s wonderment of a summer’s vacation.

Through my tears, I allowed a small smile as I felt the sea breeze brush across my face, the smell of the ocean and the touch of damp sand as it worked it’s way between my toes. 60 years of my life vanished as if it never existed.

In the still of a morning bathed in first light, a vow I made.

Abufas

Why do I love writing?

In a way, that is a complicated question. Why? Because I haven’t been writing all that much. Sure, I’ve written in one form or another over the years. There is the painfully boring technical writing that has been a part of my career. But I wouldn’t call that creative in any sense, and I certainly don’t love it. And then of course there is the agonizing over an unsent email or text message to my ex. Did I word it adequately? Are there any unintentional triggers in there that will result in a couple hundred more dollars going my lawyer’s direction?

Lord knows that writing needs to be creative, but again I don’t love it.

So I guess that is why, here in the middle of my life, I am exploring new paths for my writing. But I am just getting started back up again, and have not done much at all. I have simply committed to do it, or at least committed to try.

Do I love writing? If I were honest I would say, I don’t know yet. But I can say with confidence that I love the idea of writing.

JRSimmang

Once upon a time …

People can’t fly.

We can’t disappear with a puff of electric grey smoke.

We can’t slay dragons, we can’t teleport, we can’t be brought back from the brink of death with a kiss, and we certainly can’t call on a fairy godmother when our true love turns out to be a toad.

So sat I, adolescent and full of hormonal strife and teenage angst, on my bed with the lights turned off and the windows open. I ripped a piece of paper from my science notebook and penned a letter to the universe. I confessed my anger and asked why it was that my arms were too long and face too oily and that when I spoke sometimes the wrong words came out but I didn’t dare say I did anything wrong because it would mean that some part of me hurt someone else and that I sometimes fantasized about walking through the walls and into the forest that ran alongside the football field and finding a hole and becoming a mole person and learning how to see things in the dark so that I wouldn’t have to trouble anyone anymore and the more I wrote, the more I realized that my friends had said the same things.

And we laughed about it at lunch. And, my mom and dad assured me that maybe a kiss can’t bring us back from the dead, but it can certainly make us feel alive, and I saw the words on the page as a beginning.

And today, with my adolescent awkwardness pinned to my lapel, I am still beginning. I write because I know somewhere there’s someone else who needs to hear my words because they are stuck—glued to the pavement and they need to hear that people can take to the skies. I write because I slayed a dragon. I write because fairy tales and warp drive can be as real as the air we breathe. Our words are our echoes, and I write because I can only shout so loud with my voice.

Writer’s Digest Digital Archive Collection: Iconic Women Writers

For nearly 100 years, Writer’s Digest magazine has been the leading authority for writers of all genres and career levels. And now, for the first time ever, we’ve digitized decades of issues from our prestigious archives to share with the world. In this, the first of our series of archive collections, discover exclusive historic interviews with classic women authors including Maya Angelou, Pearl S. Buck, Margaret Atwood, Joyce Carol Oates and Joan Didion—and much, much more. Featuring five stunning issues spanning more than 60 years, this collection is perfect for writers, literary enthusiasts, educators and historians. Explore what’s inside.

Destinymoore

My entire life people have always asked my why I write. I never really know what reason to tell them, besides the fact I simply just enjoy it. When growing up you would always see me with a pen and paper, just jotting down little things. It was sixth grade when I had decided to take up writing. We had just found out that my grandfather had cancer and I didn’t take the news so well. My counselor suggested I start keeping a journal, so I could write how I felt at every giving moment. Since that moment writing just stuck with me. I took journalism in high school and I haven’t stopped writing since. It’s my way to escape to my own world.

@JaniceFDyer

When I talk, awkward garbage spills out. When I write (and rewrite!) I’m elegant and precise.

@lylenaestabine

When I write, truths that aren’t usually heard are given a place, a face and a purpose.

@kaufmannskrimis

I can’t compose music & my dancing career is over, but I can compose and choreograph words on pages. When it’s good, the words dance & sing.

@EidolonRowe

I love writing because, after I write, I can then read the story that I want to read.

@KatieRoseWrite

It forces me to condense my thoughts and document things most meaningful to me.

@LauraPerri13

I write not only to prove I was here, but so I can look back and see a book in my life.

Anne Wagonseller B

The post For the Love of Writing: 25 Wordsmiths Explain Why They Write appeared first on WritersDigest.com.

from Writing Editor Blogs – WritersDigest.com http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/fun/for-the-love-of-writing-25-wordsmiths-explain-why-they-write

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gbynvr · 7 years ago

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32.

I’m blogging!

I know I should probably acknowledge my long, sad, inexcusable hiatus… and I will get to that because there is so much I need to blog about, or rather, I should blog about but I went too long without addressing and then it sort of joined all the other “need-to-do-but-am-too-lazy” things in my brain.

So there, to preface I made sure to include that I know I sucked at blogging for a bit there and I will update on all things in my life regarding experiences, embarrassing moments, new epiphanies, etc., but for now I will blog about one really amazing occurrence that happened to me whilst I was in NYC last week. Because this…this needs to be written about.

it was around 10:45 PM on Tuesday, May 30th. Shannon and I had just gotten off the train at Union Square station and were on our way to the N train to get home. Our belly’s were full from a wonderful Ethiopian meal, which was spicier than we’d expected but still tasty and authentic. The day had gone well. It’d been a long day but we were content. The drinks we had with our dinner (espresso chocolate rum is what dreams are made of) left our hearts buzzed and happy, and the city was active, glowing with energy on this simple weekday evening. There’s something about that… about the fact that it can be any night of the week, at any random time and you can stand in a subway station and see a myriad of spectacular humans walking by…. some with suits on from staying late at work, some with crazy outfits, most just with really amazing ensembles of clothing making their way from one destination to another. It’s never not a great time to people watch in NY, and that, to me, is truly an experience.

This was no different, as we were walking in the midst of all these rushing people, we saw next to us a young frail boy with hefty glasses sitting with a fold out table and chair, in front of him was a typewriter and and next to the typewriter, a sign that read “Free Poetry”, naturally this made us halt our trajectory home, completely full of curiosity, we decided to wait our turn.

He finished up the session with the person he was with and then sat down with two more girls, they giggled while talking to him, and at one point I heard him say “basically how this works, is you tell me anything and I’ll write a poem out of it”. my brain quickly took in this information and started going through anything and everything I could say to him. And I came upon with nothing…

Maybe it would be more fair to say that I came up with too much… there was too much to say, too much to mention about my 20 years of life that he could potentially use to write a poem, and the thought that one thing I would say could make or break this moment was quite a lot of pressure.

I came up with nothing.

Sure I have passions I have things I like, many of them. I’ve met cool people, I’ve at times done cool things… but it seemed so vain and so expected to begin the conversation that way. So in order not to enter a complete panic attack I just ignored that I had to come up with something to say. Whatever would come out, would come out, I would let it flow organically.

Shannon went before me, it was then, after probably an hour, FINALLY my turn.

I sat in front of him, completely shaking… like physically shaking from nervousness. And I thought I’d mention how nervous I felt.

He smiled gently and said “Basically how this works, is you tell me anything and I write a poem about it…. but to begin, how was your day?”

How was my day? okay yes I can work with that, after all it had been an exhilarating day.

“My day was wonderful” I began…“we woke up late which was pleasant, we had sandwiches for brunch in Brooklyn, and walked to the Botanical Gardens. we’ve eaten quite a bit of food today and it’s all been extraordinary.”

This led to a brief conversation on hunger and how easy it is to ignore it, or forget it’s there when one is deeply invested in their passion, like he was. I mentioned how I had nothing to say really, how in the hour I had been waiting my turn, my usually ambitious imagination had come up with nothing because I was too intrigued by what he was doing. My mind was soaring with questions on how he started doing this, on why he started to… and what type of miraculous human he had to be, in order to dedicate his time to this.

It was obvious he wasn’t making a living out of it. Maybe some people tipped him, but the sole fact that sign initiates the conversation with “free” makes for little to no profit, therefore he truly chooses to do this, all on his own, he chooses to take time out of his day to sit and talk to strangers…. to share his talent with onlookers. To, so vulnerably display this sort of creativity…. Surely anything he has to say is lightyears more interesting than anything I could share.

I admitted how timid I felt in this moment, how bashful, and scared I was… this sort of thing was right up my alley, and all the thoughts in my head were screaming "come on! open up”…But there was something so pure and honest and authentic about his aura that I didn’t know how to be. Looking back, my genuine anxious, excited, and wiggly response to him was probably destined. Unbeknownst to me at that time, it was my attitude in that moment that led to the words he typed, which so easily and truthfully poured out of him and captured my essence, in a way I don’t think others can see because I have not displayed that type of fear and curiosity at once, with anyone….Sitting in front of him, was like sitting in front of a talking art piece. How do I deal with that? And how do I not seize this opportunity to get to know him rather than talk about myself?

He took the initiative I offered him and talked about his passion… About how much he loves to do this because he learns so much from it. How, after an evening of doing it, he feels like he has acquired so much knowledge. He had been there since 6 that day, and at this time it was nearing midnight. Meaning, he had not eaten or taken a mental/emotional break in 6 hours.

The more he talked the more I could feel myself absorbing, savoring everything he said… because everything he said was so worthy of enthrallment. He was not trying to be anything, he wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t concerned with the depiction others had of him. He was obsessed with his craft, and with sharing it.

This was fascinating. And I’m not sure exactly when, but at one point after I mentioned how easy it was to listen to people talk about what they love he started typing.

He wiggled as he typed, twiddling his fingers after every line thinking of what should come next… The same way I’m doing now. The same way I imagine any writer acts when they’re invested in their words. flexing and squirming, itching to find the next word… Only he did it publically.

It was so intimate to watch. It was a show. It was performance art all on its own. Had I not walked away with a poem, watching him create one was just as special.

I knew watching him type was part of the experience, but I also knew my presence and what we’d said to each other had inspired whatever he was writing of. And that made sitting there feel like an honor. It made me grateful. Grateful to that day, to that moment, to my life, that allows me to have little moments like this. Because it is these moments that build us. It is these moments that build me.

…. When he finished he handed me the paper. What it contained captured my heart so well I cannot fathom how he did this. It was so profound and so metaphoric, so genuinely me. I was not only in shock, but overwhelmed with emotion. My eyes welled up with tears and I muttered a soft thank you.

I handed him a five dollar bill, all the cash I had in my wallet and said something along the lines of "all I have is 5 dollars, though I think what you’re doing is worth much more".

Before leaving I made certain to mention how brave I thought he was… How much it takes to be this vulnerable and how thankful I was to have had this moment. And he said he felt that same way about me.

“of all the people that walk by, most keep walking, but it takes a lot of courage to sit and talk to a stranger from your part as well”

So that was that.

We walked away with grins, my throbbing heart fluttered with contentment, with excitement and joy. All the bits of emotion in me screaming with happiness? sadness? nostalgia? gratitude?

I can’t properly put into words what this meant to me, but I’m sure you now know, after reading this, it meant a lot.

Below is the poem he wrote.

Don’t Listen to me

Talk to me

You’re running on zeus voltage

I’m more aphrodite; thy bloodstream

A sacred nile, only my thoughts

and sometimes doctors can float about-

I love nothing more than to follow you.

Coma from coma…. don’t you dare exalt a period mark

talk more, until I yawn out of reflex

Not because you bore me

But my body needs to law down

with you.

with a spirit that hears my silent wishes of exploring the world.

Through the sounds of your voice

The language illuminates the unknown.

So please, be my interviewee.

I promise to take it easy before I floor it.

Every time I read this I draw something more of myself. I can feel a little more depth, and I can feel my heart strings chirping.

I imagine feeling this in its utmost capacity when I’m in love… it’s all of my presence. It’s sad, it’s giving, it’s taking… it’s loving and raw, and therefore it allows me to look introspectively, and also into the future. I can’t wait for someone to feel all these little bits of me.

The fact that it only took this stranger one profound conversation to break me open like this… is miraculous.

Thank you Alexis.

(oh yeah, that’s his name)

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gentle--riot · 8 years ago

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writer questions!

Since I am but a little bitty baby blog and my brain doesn’t feel like coming up with something original tonight, I’m gonna do this long af list of writer questions:

1. Right- or left-handed?

I’m technically ambidextrous, but I prefer the right.

2. Pencil or keyboard?

I use both at different times and for different projects. Planning is almost always done on paper, but I do the bulk of my writing on my computer.

3. Favorite genre to write in?

As a general rule, I write realistic romantic fiction, though I have ideas that branch through several other genres.

4. Least favorite genre to write in?

I don’t do sci-fi well, I don’t think.

5. When did you start writing?

I wrote my first story when I was 6, and I pretty much just kept writing stories.

6. What was your first story about?

It was about a boy named Sky Racer who liked a girl in his class, and everyone made fun of him for liking a girl. Her name was Lacy Daffodil.

7. How do you plan/outline your stories?

I’m planning on doing a full post about this, but I’ll give you the short version. I can create magnificent outlines, but I often struggle to stick to them. I still need a plan, though, so I make a list of things that need to happen and then set them in order and write them.

8. Where do you get story inspiration from?

I’m planning a full post about this, too, but generally the shower or from watching tv. I’ll hear a cool name and see a cool thing that a person does, and then I’ll put those together, create a full character, and send them on adventures.

9. Would you ever write fanfiction?

I love fanfiction, actually. I’m currently finishing my first one! I’ve read some gorgeous fanfictions as well as some horrible ones, the same as with every other genre of fiction.

10. Have you ever gotten a story/idea from a dream?

I haven’t! My dreams are generally such a mix of trivial and bizarre that it seems silly to write a story from them.

11. Who is/are your favorite writer(s)?

I’m a huge fan of the classics, though I think Austen is a little overrated *dodges the incoming projectiles*. I love Hemingway’s short stories, every single Bronte, Shakespeare’s poetry, Dickens, Dickinson, Neruda, and e.e. cummings. I also really love children’s poetry books. I adore Shel Silverstein.

12. What is your favorite book?

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte :)

13. Have you ever had fanart drawn of one of your original creations?

I don’t think I have! I don’t have much I’ve shared, though, so I feel like it’s maybe only a matter of time.

14. At which time of day do you write best?

I like late afternoon and nighttime.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I’ve been told that I have a distinctive voice -- that my own distinctive way of putting words together can be felt across academic, blogging, fiction, and even poetry. I’m also pretty good at writing emotional scenes and kissing.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I’m REALLY bad at dialogue by nature, but I’m getting better. I also struggle with sort of... not skirting the big things that need to be addressed.

17. Have you ever submitted your manuscript to a publisher?

I have not.

18. Have you finished a novel?

Sort of. I set out to write a novel, but it turned out to be the length of a novella instead.

19. What is your highest word-count?

The project I’m finishing for Camp NaNoWriMo, Tied, is nearly 80,000 words long, and it’s my longest project.

20. What is/are your favorite word(s) to use in writing?

As a fandom in-joke, I like to use #soon in my fics, and I really dig the phrase “endlessly and entirely”, so I have to work really hard to not use it constantly.

21. Who is your favorite character that you’ve created?

My main character, Chessa Barrow, from my novel 18 Years.

22. What are some of the main themes in your writing?

Disability empowerment is a big theme throughout my work. I also emphasize imperfections and universal acceptance.

23. Have you ever been critiqued by a professional?

Only by my professor in college, who was published. He would often tell me that I am a gifted writer and have a distinctive, inimitable way with language. That kept me writing, because he doesn’t just hand out compliments.

24. Have you taken writing courses?

I did! I took exactly one. Before I changed my college major from English to counseling psychology, I took a course in creative fiction.

25. How would you describe a good writer?

I don’t like this question. A good writer, in my humble opinion, has educated themself about writing and been diligent enough to make their work readable and enjoyable. I truly don’t feel the need to go further than that for the simple reason that... I have no authority here.

26. What are you planning to write in the future?

IT’S A REALLY LONG LIST: a fairy tale trilogy, a fanfic about knights and wizards and stuff, a story with angels and demons and swords, another fanfic where Kevin is president and Avi is vice president, and... I know there are more, but I don’t have my list closeby.

27.What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Keep aspiring. Keep doing your best to make the best work you can make.

28. What is the last sentence you wrote?

It was a sad song, but it was still a song.

29. What is your favorite quote from a story you’ve written?

“I swear to Ina Garten, if this is a dream, I’m suing my subconscious.”

30. What is the title of the last story you were writing?

Tied

31. Have/would you self-publish?

I plan on self-publishing.

32. What is the longest amount of time you’ve gone without writing?

I probably took two years off of doing fiction when I was finishing my psych degree.

33. Have you ever written a Mary Sue/Gary Stu?

I actually have a story called “moments ♡” where the main characters do not have distinguishing features, and I often put myself in the girl’s position, though she is not perfect, and I sure as heck don’t want her man.

34. What made you want to start writing?

Well, I don’t remember why I started making up stories as a kid, but as an adult, I had an accident in my wheelchair where I was seriously injured. I had a conversation with Avi Kaplan’s mom, Shelly (I like her more than Avi), and she told me that I must be full of stories.

I took up writing full-time shortly thereafter.

35. Have you ever turned real-life people into characters?

Yes. Often. I do generally change them a little bit, but in my upcoming trilogy, many of my friends make appearances :)

36. Describe your protagonist in three words:

Brave. Sassy. Strong.

37. Describe your antagonist in three words:

Bigoted. Douchey. Argumentative.

38. Do you know anyone else who writes?

I do! Many of my online friends are writers, and most of my interaction is online ;)

39. What’s you favorite writing snack/drink?

I love puff corn and Faygo cola more than most family members.

40. Have you ever made a cover for your story?

Yes. I have several works on Wattpad or ones that are going there, and I have made all the covers myself.

41. Would you ever consider being a ghostwriter?

I would if I needed the work.

42. Has your writing won any competitions?

Yep! I won several essay and poetry competitions in high school.

43. Has your writing ever made anyone cry?

It’s a recurring theme, I’m afraid.

44. Do you share your writing with your friends/family?

I do! I use Wattpad to share fanfiction with whoever wants to see on Wattpad, and two of my friends are reading chapters of my novel as I finish them.

45. What are some of the heavier topics you’ve written about?

What haven’t I covered? Emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, anxiety, ableism, sexism, self-harm, illicit drug use, alcohol abuse, death of loved ones... I haven’t written on suicide, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.

46. Do you prefer happy or sad endings?

I’m a firm believer in happily ever after :)

47. What is a line of your writing that sounds weird out of context?

“I don’t think I would like an ass salad.”

48. What is a first line from one of your stories that you really enjoy?

“I am a badass.” from my novel, 18 Years.

49. How diverse/well-represented are your characters?

Oh boy! My fics are inherently diverse considering how diverse the subject of them is. My novel is already very diverse and growing more diverse by the day :)

50. Have you ever written about a country you’ve never been in?

I tried when I was a teenager, but it didn’t go well.

51. Have you ever written a LGBTQIA+ character who wasn’t lesbian/gay?

Yes! The protagonist in my novel is demisexual, and one of her closest friends is a nonbinary pansexual.

52. Has your work ever been compared to famous writers/works?

Yep! I have been called the next J.K. Rowling just because of who I am as a person, but my work has been compared to John Green on a few ocasions.

53. What are three of the best character names you’ve come up with?

Chesapeake Dawne Barrow, Jack Everett Mason, Jesse Oliver Hamlin

54. Has a single event in your life ever sparked a story idea/character?

Well, one of my best friends likes to call me a badass because I am in constant pain, but I keep living. I don’t see myself as a badass at all, so I decided to write a character living with my issues who is a badass... and Chessa was born.

55. Do you believe in writer’s block?

Not necessarily. I believe we can get into a creative funk and struggle to get ideas out, but if you plan well and take care of your mental health, that doesn’t happen so often.

56. How do you get rid of writer’s block?

I just take in art. I’m a big fan of contemporary dance, so I like to watch some Travis Wall choreography when I’m feeling blank.

57. Do you prefer realistic or non-realistic (paranormal, fantasy, etc.) writing?

I’m more realistic, though I do enjoy more non-realistic things.

58. Which of your characters would you (A) Hug? (B) Date? (C) Kill?

I’d hug Chessa from 18 Years, date Kevin from Tied, and kill Nate from Tied.

59. Have you ever killed off a favorite character?

I’ve never killed off a character. I’m too soft :(

60. How did you kill off a character in a previous story?

^^^

61. What’s the most tragic backstory you’ve given a character?

*if you’re interested in reading Tied, don’t read this* My love interest was molested by her father, and then she was in a very abusive relationship in college. I’m not telling more. Bye.

62. Do you enjoy writing happy or sad scenes more?

HAPPY. I love happy scenes. I wrote about a week of sad ones, and my anxiety yelled at me all week.

63. What’s the best feedback you’ve ever gotten on a story?

“You went there. Gorgeously.”

64. What is the weirdest Google search you’ve conducted for a story?

“hairless dog breeds”

65. Have you ever lost sleep over a character?

Yep.

66. Have you ever written a sex scene?

Yep! *runs away demisexually*

67. What do you love and hate about your protagonist?

I love her passion. I hate her fighting to not feel things in her personal life.

68. Have you ever written a chapter that mentally and physically drained you?

Yes! This month!

69. Do your parents/family approve of you being a writer?

The opinions tend to be quite mixed.

70. Write a story in six words or less.

She was happy. It mattered.

#writer #writeblr #do this #please #fiction #writelr #author #questions #tag #writer questions #ideas #novelist

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