tw: abuse, domestic violence, abusive relationships
It’s strange to feel these butterflies after so long
and for another, my heart aches
when I thought it would always belong to you
but now my heart is pounding at the suggestion
and my lips are burning
my body knows what I need
But my brain knows I can not pursue it.
And maybe everyone needs a forbidden fruit
A starcrossed lover to defy all others
it certainly would make me forget about anyone else
but that’s the problem
I can’t lose myself
Not this time
It’s just too risky.
And I was never one for risks.
It’s truly strange,
Because I’ve felt so empty.
Cold and alone.
I find myself
Not for what I have lost,
But for what could be,
Now that I am without.
And I suppose,
That’s when you know you’re starting to heal.
I thought bad break ups were supposed to inspire writers. Instead I am more blocked than ever. Cool.
I hate being a writer. I wish I was a dancer or something so that I didn’t have to worry about words.
When writing is your lifeblood
And creation is your greatest passion
When you are unable to do so
When the words refuse to flow out of your fingertips
It leaves you defenseless
And they pile up inside of you
Until your word-hoard overflows
And at last
You can finally breathe
Being a creative writing student is so hard.
How can they put grades to my words?
Who are they to tell me how to write my story?
They teach us style and
Creativity is key
But when I want to put a comma where they wouldn’t
‘Push through the writer’s block’
‘We all start out with a shitty first draft’
But when my craft becomes my homework,
and feelings of poetry are enjambed into geology notes,
How am I supposed to make a life of this?
They tell us not to submit our homework to literary journals,
but this line is so blurred
I can barely tell my student email from my wordpress anymore.
I’m starting up a film project about high school drama clubs, specifically my old high school, and how important they are to the people involved.
I’m planning on interviewing students and teachers involved in the theater program and talk to them about how it’s affected them, even in the smallest of ways.
I also want to talk to theater alumni and see if their theater experiences stayed with them through the years since.
It probably won’t go anywhere at all, but I’m really excited about it anyway. In the very least, it’ll just be a fun project to work on.
(AN: This is an excerpt of a longer work I wrote for my Fiction class. It is entirely my own, please do not steal it! Thanks!)
They were arguing, again. This was how they had become so close in the first place- Addison would give her doe eyes while pushing subjects she shouldn’t, and Melinda would give angry sighs as her walls crumbled down. “Why are you so annoying about all of this? God, Addison, why do always insist on trying to change me, or fix me, or help me? There’s nothing to be done!” Melinda complained, her tone angry after being verbally prodded for so long.
“Because you’re my friend and I care about you.” Addison told her, and it just about broke Melinda’s heart.
She ran an angry hand through her hair, trying to keep herself in check. “I don’t want to be your friend!” she countered. So much for being in check. She could see the pain in Addison’s face and immediately regretted her words.
Melinda stepped closer to the red haired girl, as close as she could, and looked her in the eyes, her expression soft now. She placed a hand on her cheek and leaned in, doing what she had been dreaming of doing since the first time she had laid eyes on Addison. She kissed her, short and sweet, and then pulled back still keeping her face close. “I don’t want to be your friend, Addison.”
I know I refer to myself a lot as a writer, but in reality I don’t think of myself that way. I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished that title yet. I don’t write nearly as much as I should or would like to, and I have never really published anything, or really even fallen in love with anything I’ve written. I am not confident enough yet to label myself.
I want to write every day, and publish things, and fall in love with my own work. But I think first I have to find a way to write, even when I don’t know what to write. I do that a lot, and I usually can’t force anything out onto the paper. I just don’t write instead, but that isn’t an option if I really want to do this. I need to become comfortable with writing constantly, even when it’s not the best or when it’s not about what I want it to be, or if it’s just ramblings like this that will probably end up in my recycle bin.
And I think this blog might be my first step to doing that. I started this post because I wanted to write, but nothing came to mind. I knew I had to write something, though. And now I have this. Only three paragraphs of useless rant about writing, but it’s something, and maybe it’ll get the creative juices flowing.
So, I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. It hasn’t always been very good, but I’ve done it. Now that I’m older and seriously wanting to be a published writer, I find myself wishing that I had written more when I was young, even if I had just jotted down all my ideas or something. Kids are so much more imaginative and fearless, and that’s what I think my writing is lacking now. I find myself worrying so much about where a story is going that sometimes I don’t even write! And that makes me so sad!
As writers, we pull from things we know- whether we’ve read them or seen them on television or even in our real lives. Characters, conflicts, plots, dialogue, settings- all of it, whether consciously or not, we put at least a little bit of our own lives into. And that to me is one of the strangest things about writing. We are, in a sense, creating these people and situations, but they still aren’t entirely our own. You don’t fully make up characters in your head- they all have some qualities of real people. It’s especially weird since I do it so subconsciously and a lot of the time I won’t even realize that I made a character look exactly like someone I know or have a lot of their qualities, or my own habits, and then it’s pointed out to me and I’m shocked. I almost feel guilty, too. As if I’m stealing from someone else’s life or something. But maybe that’s the job of a writer, in a way. Tell every story, even if it isn’t your own?
Something to think about, I guess.