#but why do all of my word vomit writings sound like old school poems??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

britneyshakespeare · 2 years

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I was never really supposed to be a poet. Old followers and mutuals from way, way back in the day (which I'm sure is very few of you) (I'm talking circa 2014-16) may remember that when I was a teenager I played guitar. And I kinda just stopped completely shortly after I finished high school. I was also a passionate theater kid at one point but due to the toxicity it held for me, at least in my environment at the time, I stopped that too, even before I finished high school. I had a casual, passing interest in poetry since middle school, but it wasn't really more than a flirtation. Though for several years now I have called it the love of my life. I prioritized other creative pursuits above it, for sure. And it wasn't even until I was a sophomore that I even viewed it as a skill to develop on its own. My early poems were very much philosophical thought vomit that I thought was deep, but it was actually just creatively bankrupt and lazily constructed. Most poems are, for teenagers just dipping their toes in it. I didn't READ poetry at all on my own until that time as well. That helped me better appreciate it and get excited about finding myself in this new medium.

And lately I've just been thinking about how really, I originally wanted to write poetry because I thought it would help me learn to write songs. That's why I got so eager about sonnets, villanelles, ballades, other form poetry and rhyme schemes. Poems were just songs without the music, I thought. How wrong I think that is now! Some songs are poems and some poems are songs, but not all have to be or even should be. The differences between poetry and music should be embraced just as much as their similarities. Due to how much less often people read poetry than they listen to music, the comparison always ends up being a disadvantage to the art of poetry in the long run. It benefits a song to think of it as simultaneously a poem, but it undermines the value of a poem by itself. Spoken or written words without accompaniment can be very powerful and purposeful.

I never could write songs anyway. Never. I never wrote one complete song with lyrics and music. They just don't work together naturally in my brain. To me, playing guitar is such a different instinct than playing with words. And the lyrics I wrote, even after having developed my own poetic voice, were fucking awful. Somehow. I don't think poetry and songwriting are interchangeable skills. Again, the stereotype that they are ultimately undermines poetry because people think they can just transfer their skill from one form to another, and it just doesn't work. This is why so many celebrity poetry collections are awful, even when they're published by a famous musician. Sure, they know sound and rhythm, and even use them in language, but they're likely saving their better stuff for their album where they know what to do with it. They'll "bend the rules" by writing lazily, arrhythmically, overall with less effort and attention, thinking that more "free-flowing" (and by that I mean, prosaic) structure is what makes it poetry. Again, because it simply wouldn't work as a song. Well, as a poem, the product is also terrible. Appreciate poetry as its own standalone art. That's the only way to become a good poet.

But lately, I've missed music a lot more, for some reason. Maybe it's that I've been rereading my diaries and I remember how important it was to me, how much joy I got out of playing the guitar (and for a minute there also the ukulele), how relaxing it was. My guitar teacher in high school was also fucking awesome. Super cool man. Great at teaching basics and more complex stuff. Whether I was practicing or learning new things, or even teaching my friends a few songs and skills, it was such an enjoyable hobby to me. Sometimes I like telling people I "used to" play guitar, because it makes it sound like I tragically broke up with it. Sometimes people even encourage me to keep playing! And I'm normally like, well, no. I had a good time with it while I did it but I have other things in my life that occupy my hours and fuel my inspiration instead. No bother.

However, though, it's really kicking me. To the point where I just said, fuck it, grabbed my ukulele out of the closet, because that was the small, easy one to play. I played ukulele because I didn't need to learn any new skills, just the different notes/chords. Ukuleles were also unbearably trendy at the time if you remember the mid-2010s as well as I do. There were a lot of lazy uke players, which is fine, but if you already knew guitar, it was going to be easy as fuck. And it was. To me it was a lesser instrument as well, in terms of not really appreciating its uniqueness as it's own separate instrument, which I'm sure not many people do. It's the pretty baby guitar to a lot of people. I feel somewhat bad about that, and I guess I sort of partook in perpetuating that, because it was not my priority. Ukulele to guitar was poetry to songwriting. Lesser and lazier. I could've stood to know more. I should know more. I'll learn more. I hope.

But, yes, I took that out of the closet and tuned it and played one song with only a couple chords. I went into the attic because I knew I was going to sound bad and unpracticed (because it was! I am!) and I didn't wanna disturb my parents. And I only did it for like 15 or 20 minutes, and I'm so very rusty, but like. Geez that hurt my fingies. I don't remember how to hold the instrument comfortable either. My muscle memory is gone. And I can't believe how constantly-callused my fingertips used to be. I just lived like that! I lived like that. My nice soft little fingertips returning was the real reason I stopped playing guitar after high school.

#tales from diana #this is so aimless #that's what blogging should be!#im not even gonna proofread it im just gonna hit post

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echo-of-sounds · 3 years

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i don’t know

Okay, I don’t know where else to put this, so you can ignore it if you want, but I just need to get some thoughts, feelings, and anxieties out before I breakdown because of them. This’ll probably get long. And I’ll probably cry from frustration while writing this.

Two summers ago, when I was 21, my therapist said it was a possibility that I had Asperger's, mainly because of the social and cognitive symptoms. I have a horrible time understanding abstract information. In school, I cold never do a project unless I had concrete details. I just couldn’t grasp what they were asking of me. Teachers would narrow it down a bit, but it never helped. I need a clear outline. I legitimately could not do it otherwise. I froze and panicked and ended up nearly failing projects because of the lack of concrete direction.

I have a hard time understanding, what should be, simple sentences. I ask people to reword what they said or explain it in more depth. Some do. Some get angry and accuse me of not paying proper attention. I completely am. But I genuinely cannot make sense of their words and feel left out because they refuse to repeat themselves. It’s so frustrating. I loose track of the conversation, stop contributing, then they get angry again because I’m not responding to them.

My memory pertaining to certain things, is beyond amazing. I can recite the seating arrangements from all of my high school class. That was five years ago. But outside of that, it’s terrible (I know ADHD plays a role in this too). I always focus on the smaller details even if they weren’t important. I focused so much on them, I failed to see the larger picture. This also impacted so much of my schoolwork.

When I talk, I have no inflection. My voice is low and I often mumble. So many people have gotten angry at me for it. Then when I try to speak louder, to the point I’m genuinely strain myself and feel like I’m yelling, they still say I’m too quite. So I give up talking.

I had to go to speech therapy when I was younger (around 5 and 6 years old) because I still had trouble learning how to speak. My mom said I wouldn’t properly pronounce anything, use words wrong, and ‘babble’ a lot.

I’m so fucking clumsy. I bruise myself regularly because I just run into everything, even though they’ve been in the same place for years. I hit my hands off of things, nearly run into walls, and kick things often.

And my sensitivities are off the charts. It’s honestly ridiculous (I know ADHD also plays a role in this, but sometimes I feel like it’s much more than that). People tell me to stop being a picky eater when the smell of fish makes me want to vomit and feeling beans in my mouth is just plain wrong. The only smell I can tolerate is vanilla. Anything else and I want to cry. Clothing is horrible. I’m so rarely comfortable. And noises are the worst. My dad says it’s quite, but I can hear the Tv, the Tv in the other room, the sink running, that beeping, the AC going, someone clicking, the sizzling on the stove, and it’s all too much.

When I was younger, I used to have temper tantrums. A lot. They were bad. I’d hit myself, scratch myself with pens, and bang my head off the floor. I barely remember them, but I do remember it being more than just a ‘temper tantrum.’ The world was just too much and I didn’t know how to handle it, so I had a meltdown.

The severe self-harm eventually stopped, but the meltdown’s still happen to this day. My mom tries to get me to talk about it so she can help. But I can’t even explain why it happened half the time. It just did.

I’ve had so few close friends throughout my life. The ones I do make, don’t last. It’s hard for me to keep them as a friend. They don’t do anything wrong or bad. I just can never keep that connection. I barely interact with people. Even when they’re around, I just don’t talk. I abhor looking people in the eyes. It makes me uncomfortable and I don’t even know why! People get angry at me. They think I’m ignoring them when I’m not. I’m just not looking directly at them.

Communicating my feelings and expressing empathy is something I just cannot do. So I fake it. I feel worse about not feeling bad about someone’s trouble than I do actually feeling bad for them (I don’t know if that makes sense). I fake it so I don’t sound rude. I don’t want them to be angry at me.

I’d get in trouble at school when I did something ‘wrong,’ but I didn’t understand what I did wrong. I still don’t to some point. Teachers just told me I broke a rule and was in trouble. When I would ask why, they said I should be able to know that by myself. But I couldn’t. No matter how hard I thought about it.

I have a morning routine. I do it daily. If it ever gets interrupted, stopped, or I can’t complete it for whatever reason, my entire day is off. I try to continue normally, but I can’t focus. I just now my morning was messed up and I spend the rest of the day obsessing over it. It doesn’t go away until the next day when I can complete it properly.

I’ve always had hyperfocuses. ADHD affects this. I know. Some come and go, like a certain video game will consume my life or I’m suddenly preoccupied with writing poems for a week. But those go away. All my life, I’ve loved reading and learning about dinosaurs/megafauna/evolution, plants, and psychology. They’re easy for me to learn about. I retain so much information without trying. I never had to study for my psych. exams. Never. And I always aced them. I just obsessed about the subject and they remained in my memory so well.

As for stimming, I’ve done a lot of different things throughout my life, but I was always told to stop, told they were annoying, or questioned about them. So I stopped doing each one because I was scared people would get angry with me. Because some have.

I used to rub my fingers together. It kept my hands busy, but it also helped me focus and relieved some anxious energy. I didn’t know why. It just made me feel better. I’d be on the computer, using the mouse with my right hand, rubbing my fingers together with my left. My dad questioned why I did it. I didn’t have an answer so I did it less. I did it in school, while taking a test, and the teacher told me to stop because it was disruptive. I eventually stopped doing it all together because people would constantly make me feel bad for it.

I also used to babble. It was one of the reasons I was sent to speech therapy. Instead of helping me learn how to talk properly, because I did need help with that, the workers there just forced me to stop babbling/humming/repeating a word because it wasn’t proper behavior for the situation I was in.

Though I don’t babble anymore, as that was basically forced out of my behavior, I still hum and repeat lines (whether from a Tv show or a book) to myself, sometimes for days at a time. I also move my head and neck around and twist my wrists while I’m focusing on something. Half the time, I don’t realize I’m doing it. It takes another person to point it out.

My therapists said it was a possibility that I had Asperger’s. My psychiatrist said she didn’t believe so because I was able to connect with her. She felt I didn’t ‘align’ with the social troubles. I can talk to her, share feelings, look her in the eye, smile ate jokes (though sometimes I fake smile- I see another person smile so I match it), and I don’t have trouble going off topic and rambling about specific subjects.

I said okay at the time. She’s a smart woman and I trust her. But ever since, it’s been on my mind. I’ve always felt different. I don’t mean that in like ‘I’m special’ kind of way. I mean it like, ‘There’s something wrong with me and I don’t understand what it is. I don’t understand why others can do X while that takes me longer/more effort to understand. I genuinely felt ostracized. But I just accepted it.’

I don’t know how to bring it up to my mom and/or dad. I know my mom will be supportive, but I’m scared about other people. My younger brother makes jokes about autism. My siblings, dad, and stepmom don’t do anything. It pisses me off to no end. I’ve yelled and sworn at him for what he says. But he keeps doing it. My other siblings say it’s just a joke and I need to relax, but I can’t. They aren’t jokes. They’re rude, ableist, and most of them are making fun of things I do. He, nor none of family, just don’t that because I keep them hidden.

And I don’t know how to bring it back up to my psychiatrist. I feel connected to many of the symptoms and like it explains so much of my life, especially when I was young, but I don’t know how to explain all my thoughts on the subject. When she asks me a question, I often freeze and undercut my own troubles and downplay it. I’ve been obsessing over this the past few months. It’s partly why my depression got bad for a time. I don’t know it I’m making a mountain out of a mole or if I should actually seek professional help to help me, especially since I’ve applied for disability benefits because my mental health has been so bad the past couple of years.

Anyway, I’m done my ranting. Thanks for listening if you did. And I’m open to advice. I’ve just felt so stuck recently and I feel like it’ll only get worse.

#neurodivergent #autism support #autistic spectrum #mental health #personal?#it's definitely personal #personal rant #ignore my rambling #tw ableism

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ollieologys · 5 years

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summertime (with you) | p. parker | one.

SUMMARY; In Queens, things have finally calmed down for Peter Parker - he’s more than content with the way life is going. In Brooklyn, Y/N struggles with her own identity. Out of nowhere, Spider-Man dies, and Y/N begins to stick to things. (into the spider-verse/multi-verse au)

PAIRING; peter parker x spider-woman!reader

WORDS; 2.4k

WARNING; mentions of death (a/n: i updated twice today cause why not? also! if you’ve seen into the spider-verse, you know how that plotline goes. i’m going to incorporate my own villian and stuff like that into order to make this both easier for me to write and go how i want it to. this, of course, is more of a love story than an action one and therefore that’s what i’ll focus on! thank u for reading i love u <3)

prologue | two |

“Summertime is meant to fall in love, I could fall asleep and stare in your eyeeesss!” Y/N sang to herself.

Outside the apartment building, the bustling streets of Brooklyn continued through the night. New York never slept. Outside her room, however, light streamed from beneath her bedroom door as her parents conversed about their day as they cleaned up and prepared for the next day.

Y/N spun in her chair, pushing away from her white desk and overlooked her room. Describing it as a mess was an understatement. It was a Sunday night, and tomorrow began her first day of school. Only it was her first day at the prestigious boarding school known as “Brooklyn School of Science.” If anyone asked her, she wasn’t scared to go - she just didn’t want to. The truth was, she was scared.

None of her friends were going - which is a lot considering she felt as though she were friends with all of Brooklyn. She felt intimidated to be surrounded by her soon-to-be classmates. Y/N didn’t mean to prematurely judge anyone, she swore she didn’t, but it was hard not to think about how many students got into the school by paying the full tuition and those who got into the school through the placement test. She couldn’t shake the thought that the former was the majority of the population.

Scattered across her floor were shirts, jeans, bras, and other articles of clothing that she practically vomited onto her floor from her dresser and closet to “layout her options” - as she told her mother after being scolded - for what to bring to school that week. An hour or so ago, an earthquake spread across the city of New York and did nothing to help her already disastrous bedroom.

It wasn’t long after nine, and Y/N didn’t feel like feeling her suitcase or backpack. Instead, she pulled her headphones onto her neck with her music continuing to play faintly. She placed her phone onto her desk and walked out of her room and through the hallway leading into the kitchen. The lights were off, but her eyes landed on her parents sitting on the couch and watching the news. Y/N’s mother turned to face her.

“Baby, what are you still doing awake? You have school tomorrow.” Y/N’s mother asked.

“Momma, my hand hurts.” Y/N motioned toward the swollen and reddening spot just below her knuckles. “What are you watching?” Y/N took a step forward to see the TV better. On the flat screen was a well-known reporter, Grace Falon, sitting in all her professional beauty in front of New York News’ camera.

“Breaking News ahead, New York. Just as of a few hours ago, Spider-Man - also known as his true identity Peter Parker - was found dead in an abandoned warehouse just outside of The Bronx. After the earthquake, Police say that a surge of power was reported from locals and when investigated, they found the dead body of the 26-year-old male. It’s a sad night for the city of New York, especially Queens. We send our regards to anyone who idolized him. Tomorrow, a community meeting in his honor will be held and hosted by no other than his wife, Mary Jane, at...”

The reporter’s voice trailed off in Y/N’s ears as she gazed at the images on the screen. There were two. One was a photo of Peter Parker in his Spider-Man suit, and the other was simply a portrait photo of the man himself. Her father sighed.

“I never liked that Spider-Man, you know. But it’s a shame to see him gone so soon.” His head turned toward Y/N’s mother’s figure as she walked toward Y/N.

“Come on,” Her mother urged, flipping the kitchen light’s switch and then walking toward the bathroom. Y/N followed. “I hate spiders.” Her mother said, rubbing ointment softly on the red bite. Y/N laughed softly. “Yeah, Momma, I know you-” She sucked in a breath through her teeth, pain rushing through her hand. It was only yesterday that Y/N walked through the door complaining about getting bit by a spider. Grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and letting it rest on the bump had helped for a while, but eventually, the stinging pain returned.

“Sorry, Baby. Go get some rest though, okay?” Y/N nodded at her mother. Her mother smiled down at her and kissed her cheek before giving her a light push towards her room.

“You finished packing, right, Y/N?” Her father yelled from the living room.

“Uhh, yeah! G’night!” She yelled back, slamming her door shut and pressing her back to the wood. Across the floor was still the spread out clothing, shoes, and other objects of hers that she planned on bringing. Y/N sighed, pushing her way through her mess and toward one of her windows. After grabbing her phone, she slid the glass upward and climbed out onto her fire escape, looking out at the city beneath her.

As a child, Y/N was always scared of this balcony. Her apartment was four stories up, and for some reason, she always thought she’d fall to her death. Her mother had assured her that no matter what, she’d still be there to catch her. The distant sound of honking horns flooded her ears, a sound she was used to yet didn’t quite love. Leaning against the right side of the balcony, she closed her eyes, let the breeze flow through her hair, and thought about what was to come.

The abrupt sound of a closer, louder horn startled Y/N. She yelped, jumped, and fell backward off the balcony. A scream escaped her lips for just a moment as the thought of death filled her mind. Was she really going to die because she was so clumsy that she fell off her own balcony? The fall was fast, incredibly fast, before she felt herself stabilize on a surface,

Only, she was looking straight up at the moon. Y/N wasn’t looking up, though. She was looking straight. Fear and adrenaline raced through her veins. She looked at her feet and noticed they were on a balcony lower than hers.

But she wasn’t on the floor on the balcony, she was standing on the side of it.

Y/N began to hyperventilate. She was panicking, her entire body stiff with fear. How the hell was she not plummetting to the ground right now? She wasn’t obeying any law of gravity, and it terrified her.

“Think, think, think.” She whispered to herself, careful as to not wake any of the lower-level residents. If anyone saw her like this, she didn’t know what she would do. Looking in all directions, she looked for a way to get back to her room. She had fallen on the side of the balcony where the ladder wasn’t, so she needed to find a way to get to the other side of the brick wall. But it was impossible to climb up a wall, right? You’d have to be Spider-Man to do that. And Spider-Man was dead.

No matter what the facts were, she had to try something. Y/N couldn’t call for help or wait for this phenomenon to run its course. With that thought in mind, she lightly pulled on her right leg.

Nothing.

She pulled harder, then tried the other leg, but it appeared as though she was glued to the metal. With her heart-rate off the charts, and her mind buzzing with fear and questions to no one in particular, she tried her hardest to focus. Y/N thought back to the Spider-Man comics her obsessed friends would show her during their chill sessions. She felt as though she knew how to get out of this predicament, she just needed to think hard enough.

Relax. She had to relax.

In the softest and quietest voice she could muster, she began to whisper-sing.

“Summertime is meant to fall in love, I could fall asleep and stare in your eyes. You’re right by my side.”

After attempting to lift her leg again, she could feel herself begin to unstick. Panic flashed through her, she hoped she didn’t fall again, but she continued to sing in hopes to keep herself calm. Slowly but surely, she made herself off the balcony and instead onto the brick wall. Y/N inhaled quietly and placed her hands onto the wall, swiftly turning her body so that she was facing the ground far below.

Y/N could almost feel her pupils dilating. She was beyond scared, but still, she continued to sing to keep herself calm and walk down the wall.

“Summertime is meant to fall in love, I wrote you a poem for your surprise, it’s right by your side.”

Her voice trembled, but she found herself gaining more control over her sticking. She was able to unstick her hands from the wall but kept her legs sticking every time her shoe hit the wall. More than once, she wondered if this were a dream. How could she possibly be walking down a wall right now?

When she finally reached the ground, she had stopped singing and gasped, looking up at her own balcony as her bedroom lamp light flooded out the open window and onto the metal fire escape. Her original plan was to go back up to her room, go to sleep, and try and forget any of this happened. However, she found herself walking away from her apartment building and down the street. She looked something up on her phone quickly before stuffing it in her pocket. Y/N was heading straight for Calvary Cemetary in Queens.

Where Peter Parker was buried.

Meanwhile, Peter was alive, but Peter was also dead.

Not only was Peter beyond puzzled, but he also was heart-racingly scared. He yearned for help, but he had nowhere to go. After seeing the news lady say that he was killed in an abandoned warehouse, he frantically looked around in search of anything familiar. It was clear he was in Times Square. He was standing on the corner of a sidewalk as a swarm of people continuously pushed past him to get to where they were going.

“Think, think, think,” Peter whispered to himself. He grabbed his phone. It was twenty after nine, not terribly long after he thinks he was sucked into that black hole. Or wormhole. Or vortex. Or vacuum of space. Or whatever brought him here. Wherever he was. He tried calling Tony, but then he thought against it and hung up. If the call went through, which it probably wouldn’t now that he thought about it, even if he was alive he was supposedly dead. It was unlikely that he was in the same world he was before, as Spider-Man dying seems to have just happened. If he were in a different year, or if he had “died” in the suction-hole-thingy, then everyone would have already moved past his death, and it wouldn’t be on the news. All of that made sense, which could only mean one thing.

Peter Parker was sucked into a different dimension.

Adrenaline rushed through his body, and he felt goosebumps appear on his arms. The theory was insane but simultaneously made perfect sense. It was mad, and terrifying, but exhilarating and completely opened new doors to what really was happened every time Peter made even a simple choice. Despite his excitement, he needed to question Quantum Physics and space-time singularity later. He was still an odd-ball out in the sea of people as he stood in his Spider-Man suit, but he had no other clothes, and only a few people glanced at him for longer than usual.

“Um, okay,” He began to speak to himself quietly. Still, no one bothered to take a second glace at the teenage boy dressed as Spider-Man talking to himself in the middle of the night. “Where do I go to get home?” He asked himself. Tired of pacing, he began to walk in a direction he wasn’t quite sure of yet. After a few minutes of walking, snow began to fall. That freaked Peter out. It was almost summer. How could snow be falling?

He decided not to question anything anymore. At this point, anything was possible.

“I got it!” He snapped his fingers and smiled. That was what got his strange looks, but Peter ignored them. He could go to his own grave. Maybe there were people there who could let him know more about how he, or Peter, or whatever - he couldn’t figure out who exactly was who - died. There had to be some sort of reason - or correlation - to his death and his, for lack of a better term, new-found birth into this dimension.

Just as Peter was going to shoot a web to a building, he cursed and stopped himself. He couldn’t just go swinging around as Spider-Man anymore. There were too many people, and he had to keep in mind that he was dead. Or supposed to be, at least. And so, after asking a couple passerby’s, he found out where he was and headed for Calvary Cemetary.

Needless to say, the journey was cold. By the time he arrived, it was just after ten. Peter looked up at the gate’s sign that read the cemetery’s name. The snow had been falling for over an hour now, and it covered the ground. Thankfully, his suit had a heater. Peter missed Mr. Stark. He missed Aunt May and Ned. He missed Happy, and he missed his bed. Peter’s eyes began to water, but he swallowed the saliva building up in his mouth and moved forward.

It was mostly silent. Only the sound of his feet hitting the snow and the distant sounds of cars and liveliness of New York City echoed in his ears. That is, until, he heard a voice.

“I don’t know if you gave me whatever it is I have, or if this happened to you, too. But I-- I’m really scared, Spider-Man. So if you could just, I don’t know.” Peter realized the voice was a girl’s. Quiet, but his enhanced hearing could pick up every word. He walked toward her crouched figure and wondered why she was sitting in the snow all alone. He wondered what she was talking about, but as his hand reached out to touch her shoulder, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his spider senses spazzed.

“Hey-” Peter started, but was interrupted by her scream. He screamed back in response. The girl pushed him away, and his body fell to the floor as he jittered.

She sent an electric shock through his entire body, and that was the last Peter saw before he became unconscious.

taglist: @romance-geek

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alovelylight · 5 years

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(P/O) love is a wild thing

AO3

When Oliver sees Percy again, he is standing in front of the Woods’ cottage, legs plastered together in the most awkward stance Oliver has ever seen. From the side view, his fiery curls have grown longer and darker, but his freckles are mapped in the exact same places Oliver remembers.

“Percy?” he asks, careful not to stutter. Percy gives a slight jump at his voice.

“Oliver!” he says, turning towards him with a nervous smile. “I thought I would drop by to say hello—so, hello.”

Olivia tries hard not to stare at him. It’s unfair, really, how feelings can come rushing back at the slightest peek of him. George has warned him that Percy would return home from Oxford for two weeks, and since then he has been bracing himself against the inevitable.

“Well, hello,” says Oliver. It’s a deliberate choice not to pull him into a hug right away (which is what he would’ve done if he knows how to treat Percy as any other friend). “Do you want to come in?” It seems rude not to ask, especially when Percy took it in himself to come over.

“I don’t want to intrude...”

“Perce, we’ve known each other since we were four.”

Once they’re situated in the kitchen, there is more ease between them. Percy rambles on about his classes while Oliver prepares the tea, plain Earl Grey and peppermint, just the way it’s always been.

University has brought Percy even more out of his shell; he is surrounded by people—worldly and clever people—who loves to debate laws and regulations and abstract schools of thought as much as he does. Oliver is saddened by the thought that he no longer needs him, but sitting close to him and listening to him talk (even if he doesn’t always pay attention; Percy’s lips are always a lovely distraction) brings back fond memories.

“What about you?”

Oliver blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he blushes, obviously embarrassed now. “What have you been up to?”

“Working at my dad’s auto repair shop. Keeps me busy. Other than that, I’ve been reading and, uh, writing a little.” He doesn’t mention the obvious: he has suffered from a broken leg right before he was supposed to embark on a rugby scholarship to Loughborough. Though he was forced to stay at home while his mates went off to various corners of Britain, he’s been gaining most of his mobility back over the past five months. Enough to get him off the crutches.

“Good for you.” Oliver searches for any hints of sarcasm in Percy’s tone, but he is beaming at Oliver as if he’s truly proud. As if his reckless injury never happened. “What have you been writing?”

“Nothing much to show, really,” he shrugs. “Do you remember all those murder mystery novels we used to trade?”

“How could I forget?” Percy smiles, revealing a few deep dimples that distract Oliver. “Is that what you’re writing—murder mystery stories?”

“With more queer representation, of course,” he says with a wry smile. “But I don’t know if they’re any good, and at this early stage I’m too shy to show anyone anything.”

“Oliver Wood, shy?” Percy raises his eyebrows. “What has the world come to?”

“I’m a man of surprise.”

“Evidently.” He takes a sip of his tea. “You can show me what you’ve written. If you want, I mean. I know I’ve got the reputation of a razor-tonged critic—”

“I distinctly remember you telling six-year-old Ron that his drawings look as if Satan possessed his body, got drunk off vodka-spiked slushies, and vomited all over the paper.”

“I’m always nice to you.” Percy taps Oliver’s feet with his own. “Besides, I was only ten. I’m a changed man now; I even stopped signing my name off in text messages.”

“I noticed,” Oliver laughs. “I wish you wouldn’t stop doing that. It was endearing.”

“Endearing?”

“Yeah, you know, cute.” He thanks the dark complexion he inherited from his dear mum for hiding his blush.

Percy’s eyes widen from behind his glasses. They’re still brilliantly, beautifully blue and Oliver hates him for it. “Listen, I hate to end this conversation, but I promised Mum I would be home for dinner. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I can come by after work,” Oliver offers, trying not to sound too eager. “I haven’t been to your house since the twins’ birthday bash. I think everyone from that party got implicitly banned from entering again.”

Percy’s laugh leaves him feeling warm and tingly.

Percy’s room looks more or less the same. This is the domain of a boy with worlds at his disposal, tucked into neatly aligned novels and books of poems. A model of the solar system takes center stage on his desk. There is a cardboard cutout of Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in the corner—a gag gift that Charlie knowingly got him on his fifteenth birthday—but everything else is nothing less than scholarly. Except, maybe, an IKEA candle burning on his bedside table.

Percy pats the spot beside him on the bed, and Oliver plops down next to him.

“Are you still dating Flint?” he asks Oliver, tilting his head in inquiry.

The question is unexpected enough to make Oliver feel hopeful. “Haven’t seen him since he went to Sheffield. We weren’t even dating, really, more like fooling around. He got bored while I was recovering. Good riddance, really. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

Please say no. “Not since Penelope. We’re mates now; we’ve been encouraging each other to participate in social events at Oxford and we live in different colleges so things don’t get too awkward.”

“That’s good to hear,” Oliver slowly nods, relieved by the news. These two weeks wouldn’t change a thing between him and Percy, but he feels better knowing that the object of his pining is unattached. “So. Anything planned to do while you’re crashing back home?”

“Spending time with family, mostly.” He winces. “God, I forgot what it’s like to live under the same roof as the twins. No peace or privacy. But I quite missed it, strangely enough. It’s also nice to catch up with Ron and Ginny, though Ron acts like I’m the dreaded third parent. But Ginny’s been sending me emails ever since I left; I think she thinks no-one at home has time to listen.”

“That’s lovely of her to write,” says Oliver. “I’ve been trying to keep in touch with you too, but after a while...”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“No, wait.” Without thinking of the implications, his hand closes over Percy’s, which was lying on the space-patterned duvet between them. “Seeing as how we left things off, I thought it would be...well, I thought we needed some space.”

“I think about you every day, Oliver.”

“Y-You do?”

“Of course I do,” Percy says, colder this time. He pulls his hand free from under Oliver’s. He misses the warmth immediately. “When you keep ignoring my texts, I suspected that you wanted to forget about me, that you didn’t care about how I was doing. I don’t expect you to drop everything else to pay attention to me, of course not, seeing as you’re in recovery—but it still bloody stings.”

“Oh, fuck, Percy,” Oliver groans, “I’m so, so sorry. I thought—I thought I was doing you a favor. I mean, you’re brilliant. You’re brilliant and wonderful and you are going to take the world by storm. You don’t need a boy from home holding you back, you know?”

“That,” Percy narrows his eyes, “is the stupidest pile of shite I’ve ever heard.”

The profane remark is a hurtful surprise; Percy only swears while watching EastEnders or when he’s really upset. “I’ve been selfish, but not because I don’t love you enough,” says Oliver, gently. “It’s because I love you too much for my own sanity.”

It’s an overly dramatic declaration that belongs in a soap opera about infidelities among the rich, but he wouldn’t take it back if he could.

Percy gapes at him as if he’s gone mad. “Did it ever occur to you that I may love you too, you absolute idiot?”

Oliver couldn’t believe his own ears. “I’ve asked you out three times while we were at school. You’ve had plenty of time to prove that.”

“The first time, you were so intoxicated you forgot the word ‘date’—”

“Drunken me is still honest and true!”

“The second time was over text. With typos!”

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut. “That text took me about ten minutes to compose, and my fingers shook from the nerves. But the message was very clear.”

“Well, I thought you were teasing. Or drunk-texting. Or meant to send it to Flint or some other bloke.”

“But the third time,” Oliver insists, “couldn’t have been clearer. Face-to-face and sober and flowers in my hand and on your bloody doorstep while it was raining. And my hair was gelled. God, Percy, my hair was gelled.”

“I was at the brink of moving across the country.” He averts his eyes. “It wasn’t the right time. I can’t treat our relationship like a summer dalliance.”

“It never seems to be the right time, does it?” Oliver sighs, touching Percy’s hand again.

“I’m sorry, Ol.” Unexpectedly, he takes Oliver’s hand up to his lips to press a kiss against his fingers. “I’m really sorry.”

The kettle begins to boil in earnest just as the knocks on the front door become more and more insistent. Cursing under his breath—he had expected a free night in to work on his novel, it was raining after all—Oliver walks up to the door.

He is met with the sight of Percy Weasley, drenched in rain and armed with yellow flowers.

“These are for you, you’re welcome.” Percy hands the flowers to Oliver. Despite wilting from the rain, they're still very beautiful, which causes an unfair riot in his heart. “Jonquils. I think they signify love and desire? The florist could be spouting bollocks for all I know; she listened to me talk about you and chose these, so I hope you like them. Or don’t hate them, at the very least.”

“You know I love them. They’re from you, after all.” He looks at Percy in the eye and gives him a smile—tentative, slow. “And I know nothing about floral meanings, so you’re safe. Is this why you came? To give me a bouquet?”

“I noticed there’s a new natural history museum on Godric’s Road, but they still couldn't get a bloody planetarium.”

“Yeah, I know about that. I live in this town.”

“It still looks enticing. I thought we could go on our first date there, then get lunch at The Three Broomsticks and buy each other gifts from the bookshop like we used to.”

“Perce...I don't understand." He puts a hand on Percy's shoulder. "What changed?"

“Two weeks may not be much, but we’ve known each other our whole lives." Percy raises his chin in defiance. "Something as inconsequential as physical distance couldn’t stand against the both of us.”

Percy pushes their foreheads together until there is not so much as a breath between them. Hell, Oliver couldn’t even breathe. His heart gallops in his chest and his world narrows until there is nothing else outside the boy in front of him. “Are you going to take me to a planetarium next?” he asks with a chuckle.

“If you’re ever so lucky.”

#fic #percy weasley x oliver wood #perciver #percy weasley #oliver wood

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sosa-sketch · 5 years

Text

Fright or Flight: Chapter 3

Parings: Prinxiety // Logicality // Platonic LAMP

Story Summary: Virgil and Patton investigate the New Prince Castle, when a brutal accident kills Patton. Patton wakes as a ghost and meets friendly ghoul Roman, who has been haunting the castle for 20 years. Virgil is determined to bring Patton back to life and brings Logan, the ghost expert, to help him out. Time is quickly running out, and the four must work together to undo death. If only it was as simple as Logan made it sound.

Unknown to them, a secret entity in the castle does not plan on letting them succeed.

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Anyone normal who did what Virgil did, especially at his age, would twist and turn at night with hellish dreams of ghouls and demons. Staring at the crooked flyer on the school hallway wall, with zombified cliques of high schoolers shoving their way around him, Virgil fantasized about being one of the common. There on the wall, the flyer advertised a poetry competition offered to any student interested.

Why was it that he could explore hallways blanketed in dark blacker than night and reach out to the dead without second thought; but when it came to contemplating a flyer, his heart hammered and his palms drowned in sweat?

Call to the unknown realm of the afterlife alone? Sure. Virgil could handle it. The mere thought of submitting his writing to a bunch of old ladies who would read thousands of entries and wouldn’t even remember his name? Someone get the vomit bag ready.

A gentle nudge of his shoulder made Virgil leap four feet in the air, landing tense and uncoordinated. “Geez, Patton. Way to sneak up on a guy.”

Patton had the decency to look sheepish. “What’s got you all tense, Kiddo?”

“Nothing.” Virgil dismissed. Patton followed Virgil’s eyes, which were still lingering on the poetry flyer.

“A poetry competition, huh?” Patton inquired, pointing out the obvious. “That sounds right up your alley!”

Virgil would be lying if he denied he had a certain aptitude for poetry. He had started with angsty, nightmarish poems-that to this day he refused to read-and had fleshed out his skill and passion from there.

It wasn’t the writing of the words that spoke to him; it was more their rhythm. Whatever he felt, he could create. A steady beat in iambic pentameter or a free style collage of metaphors and raw feeling, clashing with no sense or rhyme. Dyslexic or not, Virgil’s mind had an aptitude in passionate worded rhythm.

The thing with the power of his poetry being unlocked through the tones and wavelengths of his voice was that Virgil had to speak in order to show it. What Virgil gained through the potential strength in his words, he lacked in execution.

“Pat, I’m okay at poetry. I’m definitely not good enough for a serious competition. It’d be setting myself up for failure.” Virgil dismissed. Still, his eyes remained locked on the flyer.

Virgil was awful at public speaking. He could just imagine the way he would shrink into himself, quieting his words until the microphone couldn’t pick it up. Silencing his message.

“You never know if you never try.” Patton encouraged.

It wasn’t certain that he would even make it to the opportunity of performance. The judges may gloss over his poem and toss it in the fiery trash pile. He wouldn’t even be given a shot.

Virgil rolled his eyes shook his head irately. “I’m good.”

Patton shrugged. “If you say so.” He proceeded to rip the flyer off of the wall, holding it gently in his hands. Maintaining innocent eye contact with Virgil, he smoothed out the rumpled edges of the flyer and lifted Virgil’s hand, twisting his palm upwards.

He dropped the flyer into Virgil’s hand, having the nerve to bat his eyes innocently with a casual stance. Meeting Virgil’s incredulous gaze, he winked. “In case you change your mind.”

Virgil shook his head exasperatedly, lips twitching upwards. “I’ll be at your house to pick you up at four. Remy’s driving us. Be ready.”

Patton mock saluted, then broke out into a freckled grin and waved goodbye.

Virgil’s house was a relatively quick walk from school. Nonetheless, the Florida heat made Virgil’s hoodie glue to his back with sweat and smudged his cheap eyeliner. By the time he got home, he had clown paint running down his flushed cheeks, which he couldn’t even wipe away because of his damp, long hair affixed around his eyes. His armpit stains could serve as a swimming pool for bugs and small birds.

If there was any way to drive the unbearable temperature away, a shadowy silhouette sitting in his house was one way to do it. Virgil felt his blood run cold as ice shot up his veins, freezing his movements. His heart jutted wildly in his chest as Virgil slowly cracked open the door and wildly scanned the room.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Virgil spied a large cup that surely did not belong to him sitting idly next to the stranger. Sitting on the bridge of the stranger’s nose, as he sat alone in the dark room, was the outline of sunglasses.

Virgil rammed his hand into the light switch by the door with narrowly controlled rage. His blood fused from frozen to boiling as he slammed the door shut behind him.

“Remy! What the hell are you doing in my house?”

Remy give Virgil a half-witted acknowledgement, granting him a grunt. “Watching Netflix?”

Tucked in Remy’s lap was a device slightly emitting a soft glow, only visible when Remy lowered his hands from the sides of the phone. “In the dark? In my house?” Virgil dubiously accused.

Remy shrugged. “How else would you watch a horror movie?”

Virgil’s fury was fueled by Remy’s nonchalance. “You absolute psycho! You don’t go into people’s houses and sit in the dark without letting them know!” Virgil fumed. “And you know who watches horror movies alone in the dark? Serial killers! Is that what you are, Remy? A serial killer? Because you’re sure as hell as psycho as one!”

Remy gazed at Virgil as he ranted, mildly bored. When Virgil finished his rant, huffing and puffing for air, Remy took an exaggerated sip from his Starbucks cup, raising an eyebrow. “You done?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m done with. I’m done with you.” Virgil shot back.

“Thank goodness! Might I hope done enough with me to not need a two hour ride to your knockoff castle?”

“You’ve sure got me thinking about it.”

“A word of advice: You shouldn’t think about things.” Remy teased. “Dangerous things happen when you do.”

“I’ll show you what danger is if you don’t carry all my things to the car and start driving in the next two minutes.” But, Virgil had begun to untense, and his words were losing spite.

“Alright, sis. You win, you win.” Remy relented, putting his hands up in mock defense. “And oh, by the way. Your wifi sucks ass.”

The car ride had been quiet, at least to Virgil, whose headphones were locked on his head to block out the animated chatting of Remy and Patton. Virgil focused on the journal in front of him filled with half-completed thoughts and scratched out phrases, gnawing at his pen nervously.

A persistent poking on Virgil’s shoulder snapped him out of his jumbled mindset. Patton was giving him an eager look, as if he had been requesting Virgil’s attention for a while. Virgil raised one muff off his ear, humming in acknowledgement.

“What you working on?” Patton asked, pointing at the rundown journal balanced on Virgil’s knee. Virgil almost instinctively shut the journal, but remembered who he was talking to. “Just some writing.”

Patton didn’t probe further, and Virgil was grateful for that. But, Patton knew Virgil better than anyone. The poetry flyer weighed heavy in the supplies bag Virgil had stuffed it in last minute.

He wasn’t giving the competition any serious thought. But, it felt good to write. To create a calm rhythm on paper to relax him. So why did he keep putting his work up to par with professional standards when he usually just wrote for himself?

Virgil sighed. The poetry competition was getting to his head and it should be the least thing he was focused on. Beyond the competition, there was a stronger itch that Virgil could not ignore anymore.

“Pat, let’s go over it one more time. Just so that there’s no questions when we get there.” Virgil suggested, already opening the notes app on his phone.

Virgil not so much saw but felt Remy roll his eyes; however, Patton nodded encouragingly.

“We’re investigating the New Prince Castle.” Virgil broached. “It was a family run business that gave kids a ‘medieval experience’ by giving them roles like kings or jests. The night that the family was murdered, there were five employees working.”

“The two parents, their two sons Roman and Declan Prince, and Roman’s husband, Thomas Sanders.” Patton listed.

“Right. All five employees were murdered, but due to the remaining family’s request for confidentiality, the details of the murder we never released to the public. What we do know is that the day the murder took place, the New Prince Castle was closed for renovations and guarded, with cameras on the outside that caught no one slipping in.”

Patton scrunched his nose in confusion. “So they caught no one sneaking in?”

“Right.” Virgil confirmed. “Which can mean three things. Either someone has extremely lucky; had extensive knowledge of the security cameras and the guards shifts; or our killer was already inside to begin with.

“You think it could have been an inside job?” Patton gasped.

Abruptly, the car jerked to a stop and Virgil’s laptop hopped from his lap onto the matted floor. The car halted on an empty path that stretched forward for miles.

“What the hell, Remy? How about a bit of a warning next time?”

Silence echoed through the small car.

Virgil rolled his eyes and leaned forward to wave his hand in front of Remy. “Hello? Earth to the maniac driver responsible for the safety of two teenagers.”

Remy snapped out of his daze, meeting Virgil’s eyes through the rearview mirror and gaving him a tight smile. “Sorry, but you’re ruining my vibe. You’d be distracted too if murder and deceit was constantly being blabbed in your ear.”

“No one’s telling you to listen.” Virgil retorted, settling back into his seat. When the car refused to move, Virgil kicked the driver’s seat. “Drive, Rem. We have a castle to get to.”

“Somethings are better left alone.” Remy muttered, and Virgil flipped him off in intelligent response.

Agonizingly slow, Remy pressed the accelerator until they matched their previous pace. Virgil shared a perplexed glance with Patton’s worried one. After minutes of twitchy silence that Virgil couldn’t find the source of, Patton spoke up.

“Do you think we’ll get any answers?” Patton wondered hesitantly.

Virgil shrugged, grateful for the break in quiet. “Maybe.” In all honesty, every investigation made his chances feel more and more slim. Virgil hadn’t caught any ground-breaking proof of the paranormal. There was voices, sounds, and unexplainable occurrences. But science freaks were stubborn. Virgil would have to catch something good-really good-to be taken seriously.

Patton cheered, “Maybe I could be your good luck charm!”

Virgil smirked in possible agreement and a more comfortable hush settled. He turned his attention to the window. The sun was bright and glared against the glass-they should make it to the castle with hours to spare.

The woods seemed to stretch on indefinitely. The trees were thick and sturdy; they formed a woody wall on both sides of the road. It both unsettled and calmed Virgil as they continued their travels.

A sudden yell broke the peace. “Argh! No, no no!” Remy exclaimed, slamming his fist on the wheel.

Virgil snapped his head away from the window worriedly. The gas engine huffed and puffed in desperation as the car slowly treaded to a halt.

“Now what?” Virgil cried. “We weren’t even talking about murder!”

No, it’s not you.” Remy ran his hand through his thick, shiny hair. “We’re out of gas.”

“You didn’t pour gas before we left?” Patton asked.

“I could have sworn I had a full tank.” Remy mumbled, ferociously tapping the fuel gauge.

“You should have double checked!” Virgil criticized. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Remy!”

“Okay, you need to take a chill pill. I can call a tow.” Remy reasoned.

“What about the investigation?” Patton pointed out.

Remy shrugged. “You can just visit your haunted house next weekend.”

Virgil shook his head angrily. “No, Remy! Next weekend is prom, and the week after that we graduate! We need-” Virgil paused, taking a deep breath. “We need to do this now.”

Patton tapped Virgil’s shoulder and pointed at the car’s GPS map. “It’s only a few miles. We can walk.”

Remy spluttered. “Only? That’s two hours of walking in these woods! Gurl, you’re crazy. We’re calling a tow.”

As much as Virgil wanted to argue, the thought of two teenagers walking alone in the woods seemed like a cliché setup to a horror story he did not want to play part in.

“We can make it with daylight to spare.” Patton argued. “Nothing is going to happen to us. This used to be a tourist spot, remember? Nice and kid-friendly.”

“I don’t know Patton.” Virgil squirmed, unresolved.

“You stay in haunted places alone, kiddo! Taking a nice scenic stroll with your bestie is a walk in the park!”

Virgil mulled over his friend’s positive logic. “We could do some investigation along the way…”

“And it’s not like we’re alone-we’ll probably run into some families camping or something on the way.” Patton added helpfully.

As Virgil mulled the thought over, it seemed to make sense. He had Patton and Remy was a phone call away. The castle wasn’t too far. Truly, what choice did he have? This was something Virgil and Patton had to do before graduation. As Patton had put it, it was ‘one last big adventure.’

“Alright.” Virgil conceded, convinced. “Get your stuff from the trunk.”

“Y’all are crazy. Absolutely insane.” Remy blustered as Patton lifted the trunk open and Virgil stuffed his journal and laptop into his overused bag. “Why don’t you do your nerd research on somewhere spooky closer to home and I’ll drop you off there tomorrow?”

“Sorry, Rem.” Virgil apologized, slamming the trunk shut affirmatively.

“How are you getting home?” Patton asked, uncomfortably trying to balance his bag in one hand and suitcase in the other. “Did you even bring money to pay for a tow?”

Remy waved his hand dismissively. “I know a guy.”

Patton smiled and wrapped his arms around Remy gratefully. “Be safe, kiddo.”

Remy pat his back before untangling himself from Patton’s grasp. “Gurl, don’t call me kiddo. I may not look it, but I am a dinosaur compared to you two wild cats.”

Patton stepped away to leave Virgil and his unofficial guardian some privacy. Remy huffed, crossing his arms. “If you tell your parents I left you and your dad friend alone in the woods I will personally make sure ghosts are the least of your worries.”

Virgil mimed zipping his lips and tossing the key before stuffing his hands in his pockets. Hesitating, he asked, “Remy, you’re okay, right? Like, you’re done being weird?”

Remy chuckled, but his shoulders remained tense. “Sis, I’m gonna be honest. Do I like the thought of leaving you alone to investigate some shifty castle? Of course not. I don’t mind your haunted houses or mysterious abandoned sex dungeons or whatever. But this castle?” Remy trailed off ambiguously.

Virgil squinted his eyes in contemplation. “Have you been to the castle before?”

“When I was a kid,” Remy explained. “It gave me…” Remy cut himself off, as if he couldn’t find the right word, and shook his head distractedly, “Not good vibes.”

Virgil softly smacked Remy’s shoulder, wanting to snap the drama queen out of whatever uncanny mood had struck him. “I get you. It’s a weird abandoned castle that used to be run by some extra family who thought it was still medieval times. We’ll be careful.”

“Yeah.” Remy clapped his hands together, then smirked. “I filled my mushy quota for the next year, at least. Go on and talk to your demons or whatever.” Remy teased. “Just do me a solid and don’t let me know if you find any ‘evidence.’ That castle has got me spooked enough.”

Virgil faked giving Remy’s request some thought. “We’ll see how I feel.”

“Seriously, Virge!” Remy protested.

Virgil raised his hands in acquiescence, yielding to Remy’s chicken request. Giving Remy a final goodbye salute, he strode to where Patton was waiting and entertaining himself with kicking a pebble from foot to foot.

When Virgil arrived, Patton greeted him with a questioning eyebrow raise and a not-so-subtle glance at Remy. Virgil shrugged off his concern with a nonchalant head shake. Remy truly was odd without his coffee.

“We should start heading now just so that we’re sure we’ve got enough daylight.” Virgil determined, beginning to tread forward on the side of the road. Patton eagerly followed in suit with one last wave to their melodramatic ex-driver.

Clapping his hands giddily, Patton beamed, “New Prince Castle, here we come!”

Taglist:

@suspicious-sweaters @septicstarlight

Special thanks to @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors for helping me out with the tag list and linking!

#thomas sanders #sander sides #thomas sanders fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #remy sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #LAMP #CALM #fluff #angst

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rachelthompsonauthor · 5 years

Link

Writing fears suck, don’t they? If you’re a writer, you have them, no matter where you are in your career. Yet writing fears are especially ominous when you’re first starting out. The endless loop of:

What if I’m not good enough?

What if people hate my book?

What if someone gets hurt by my book?

What if people write horrible reviews?

What if what I think is good is just crap?

and on it goes.

I can fully relate. I didn’t start my writing career until my forties (I’m 55 now) for many of those same reasons. I also didn’t know how to start – what’s the proper, right way to start? To publish? To market? It’s overwhelming for someone just starting out, especially if that someone is super process-oriented like me.

Are These Fears Valid?

Of course, they are. All feelings are valid, even if they aren’t always logical (like toddlers in the sandbox, thinking and feeling don’t always get along or agree). For more on this, here’s an article you might find helpful from Scribed Media: 6 Writing Fears and How to Beat Them.

I work with many writers (as both a survivor and advocate, as well as in my BadRedhead Media business) who don’t give themselves permission to write because of these fears. Here’s what helped me – and it’s so simple it’s almost stupid. A quote. One quote. I’m almost embarrassed to share how enormous an effect that one little quote had on me; how it freed me from my mental fear prison, yet it did.

From Lorrie Moore, author and professor, via a widely quoted interview in Elle Magazine

“Compared with her students, who are often still deeply involved with their parents, Moore says she had a more formal, old-fashioned relationship with hers—which helped her make the “romantic and bloody-minded” decision to commit wholly to her art when she started writing seriously in college. (“The only really good piece of advice I have for my students is, `Write something you’d never show your mother or father.‘ And you know what they say?” she says, wide-eyed with disbelief.” `I could never do that!'”).

That’s it. I wasn’t even a college student – I was a full-grown adult with my own kids. There I sat with a pen and paper (okay, computer laptop) on my desk, journals at the side, ready to write about uncomfortable truths. Sexual topics. Surviving sexual abuse, sexual interactions with past lovers, relationships, PTSD, triggers, and other ‘things’ you don’t typically talk to your own parents about.

And I thought: Geez, Rach. You’re forty-fucking years old. Stop thinking about what other people will think (Nonfiction Writing 101: You cannot know what someone else thinks – only what you think). So, I went for it.

You’re an adult. Write like one.

And with that, I started to write my first memoir/poetry book, Broken Pieces.

Drawer Of Fears

Take a piece of paper (I suggest a page in your journal or in your online notepad). Write down your list of writing fears. Write down everything you’re afraid of, whether it’s based in reality or sounds like something full of magical fairy dust. Whatever it is, write it down. Pages and pages, or three little bullet points. Whatever.

Okay? When you’re done, come on back. Oh, be sure to print out what we’ll call your Page Of Fears.

***

Good, you’re back. Now take that piece of paper with all your fears and put it away in your Drawer of Fears. Make sure that drawer has a lock (or needs a password). Physically give them a kiss, and tell them goodbye.

Don’t worry! They’ll still be there. You can visit them anytime you want to. However, for now, I want you to know that you have cleared them from your mind and body. Kinda like burning sage but without the burning. Or the sage.

Writers cannot write around clutter. It’s a known fact.

Let Go Of Your Perfection Fears

Your first draft is where you start. Your first draft of whatever it is that you want to write. You may not even know and that’s okay.

This stumped me at first. And when I say stumped, I mean I did not move from the doing anything about with my writing stage for years. Where do I start? How do I structure my writing? Don’t professional writers have official outlines and plots and characters with histories and plots all devised, etc? Well, sure, some do. However, some don’t. Plotters vs. Pantsers, etc.

This entire thought process alone sent me into Analysis Paralysis. What’s the right way?

As a creative nonfiction writer, I didn’t know how I wanted to format my writing. I did kinda sorta know my thematic structure (which, by the way, completely changed after my first developmental edit) – I also knew I planned to work with a structural (aka, developmental) editor, so I took that fear (see point number two) of how to make it “perfect” in the end, put that in my Drawer of Fear, and wrote what I refer to as my word vomit.

Just Start Writing

Nobody will see what you are writing unless you want them to. I repeat: nobody will see what you’re writing unless you want them to. It could take you a month, a year, or several years before you reach the point where your writing is in publishable condition.

Your ‘shitty first draft’ needs to be free-flowing, non-self-edited crapadoodle. You hear me, you little perfectionistic drones? Give yourself permission to purge your words.

It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t have to make any sense which, honestly, is why journaling is so great. It’s a wonderful mental purge and can be a great stepping-off point to your writing. (Need help getting started? Visit the fabulous Leigh Shulman. She’s got a free plan for you.)

Your first draft is not even your dress-rehearsal. It’s more like…practice. It’s just a draft. It could take 30 or 50 or 100 or 300 drafts before it becomes a book.

Then you keep at it. Writing isn’t a walk in the park. It’s work. It’s a job. It’s a career if you decide to make it one and you’re good at it. And you work hard to become a better writer. Whether you believe in the 10,000 hours concept or the old ‘How do I get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice,’ joke – either way, the only way to become a better writer is to learn how to become a better writer.

How did I get better? Even though I took a number of classes growing up (in high school and college), I didn’t feel that prepared me for how I wanted to write now. So, I read a ton of creative nonfiction books (some of my favorites are below) in the style that appealed to me. I took online classes that helped me improve my writing. I went to readings by writers I admired (most are free or cost the price of the book).

I continued journaling (as I had been since I was a kid). And I continued writing – all kinds of stuff – articles, short stories, poetry, ideas for articles, short stories, and poems. And I began blogging (in 2008). Blogging absolutely makes you a better writer and I’ll fight anybody who says otherwise. Rawr.

Investing in myself helped me get over my fears. To face my fears. To crush my fears.

Don’t Forget About Your Fears Completely

Everything I mentioned above took time. Just about every writer I’ve ever met wants their first book to be a massive bestseller right away, pay off all their bills with the royalties, sit on Oprah’s couch because of it, and have everyone reading it on the train a la Fifty Shades.

That’s all great. How are you going to make that happen?

Have realistic expectations. Have a plan. Write the most fantastic, professional book you can. Figure out what you don’t know about not only writing but also marketing and publishing, and then learn.

Above anything else, deal with your fears. They’ll still be in that drawer, waiting for you. Just like trauma, your fears don’t magically disappear because you’ve set them aside. They’ll pop up like that whack-a-mole game, except now you’ll have experience and time to hit them back with.

And yet…I don’t recommend hitting your fears back like an enemy. Change that paradigm. Make friends with them. How can your fears help you? What is it about a specific fear that’s got you so wound up?

Sometimes, it’s what we fear most that motivates us.

Just as I discuss how I made friends with Shame in my fourth book, Broken Places, do the same with your Page of Fears. Make your fear work for you so you can become the writer you want to be. You’ve lived through so much, writer friends! You can absolutely write about it.

I know you have it in you.

Here is a list of my personal favorite creative nonfiction books (disclosure: affiliate links provided).* I also recommend reading short stories by Raymond Carver. He’s a master storyteller.

*Note: These are not books about writing creative nonfiction. That’s a future post.

Calypso by David Sedaris

Night by Elie Wiesel

First, We Make The Beast Beautiful: A New Journey Through Anxiety by Sarah Wilson

Cathedral by Raymond Carver

The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr

The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls

The post How To Crush Your Writing Fears Right Now appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

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lovemesomesurveys · 5 years

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5,000 question survey series--part thirty-four

3201. What if this is as good as it gets? Well, shit... I sure hope not. This isn’t good. 3202. Have you ever dated someone mostly or completely because of their looks? Absolutely not. It was their personality that made fall them more than anything. Looks played a small role. 3203. What does the word 'of' mean? It’s used to express the relationship between something. 3204. What should you never forget? Important things? 3205. How many of the 7 Dwarves can you name for us? Dopey, Sleepy, Bashful, Doc, Grumpy, Sneezy, and Happy. You’re welcome.

3206. What animal does your mom resemble? She doesn’t resemble an animal... 3207. Have you ever had a palm reading? No. I don’t believe in it. 3208. What's acrazy thing you did that you got in troubl for as a kid? I lied about taking my medicine. I was hiding them behind my bed. :X 3209. What do you battle against? Depression. Although, if we’re being real it’s not much of a battle. It won. 3210. Do pircings really make the pierced area dramatically more sensative? I wouldn’t know. My ears were pierced when I was about a year old, so I have no memory of it and those are the only piercings I have. 3211. If you had put aside some money for a trip and the travel agent said he had 2 trips available in your price range during the week you want to go, which would you choose: a> a week in hawaii in a luxory beach resort b> a week in africa helping the red cross distribute food and medicine 3212. Have you ever played with a dreidal? I believe so. I remember in elementary school we’d have days where we learned about different cultures and religions and this girl in my class was Jewish and brought some Jewish food and dreidels. 3213. Did you know that Kraft is owned by a ciggerette company? I don’t know if that’s true. Does that bother you? 3214. With all the information constantly rushing at you, how do you know what's important? I don’t know. It’s just something you have to decide for yourself. 3215. How is your life unlike a movie? Everything isn’t all figured out in 2 hours. 3216. Where is the most beautiful place you have visited? Various beaches and mountainous areas. 3217. What is never going in your mouth? Shit. 3218. Are there realaly 5,000 different facts about you? I can’t think of nearly that many. I have a hard time coming up with like 5, ha. 3219. Do you like banana bread? Yesss. Banana bread or muffins without the nut are the best. 3220. Who are you the most gentle and tender around? My doggo. 3221. If electrodes were inserted into your brain and a button was put into your arm so that you could push the button and stimulate an immeadiate orgasm would you forget about life and sit at home pushing the button until you died? lol no. 3222. Is there a differance between being scared and afraid? I think so. I think of afraid as being more severe. 3223. Are you scared and/or afarid of death? Afraid. If yes, what is it about death? The pain? The seperation? the unknown? the fear of nothing? 3224. What is exsitentialism? The idea that a person is a free agent, basically. 3225. SUCCESS is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break, agonized and clear. by, Emily Dickinson What is Emily Dickenson trying to say here? 3226. A college girl (maybe you?) blows a tire and pulls off the road in an unfamilliar residential neighborhood. She is having trouble changing the tire when a man in his late thirties-ish comes over and asks if she needs some help. He changes her tire and offers to let her go into his house to wash her hands. She is dirty from trying to change the tire. Should she accept? Absolutely not. I don’t trust people, man. I’m not going back to some stranger’s house. I’d kindly thank them and be on my way. I have hand sanitizer, I’m fine. She does accept and he gives her a tour of the house inclding the upstairs. The staircase in the livingroom leads directly into the master bedroom. The view out the window is beautiful. What are you thinking about this situation? This gives me anxiety, honestly. I’m imagining something bad is going to happen. 3227. Are you too trusting of others? No. 3228. What's the difference between a den and a living room? *shrug* 3229.Write a stream of consiousness sentance: 3230. Who is the hero of all kids? There isn’t one hero for everyone. 3231. Who do you tend to show more of your best side to, your family or strangers? My family sees the good sides, but they really bad sides, too, unfortunately. 3232. How do you think the harry potter series will end? I know how it ends, it’s been out for years. 3233. Name three things that would make really bad ice cream flavors: Mustard, ketchup, and mayo. lol. 3234. Would you try a jelly bean if it's flavor was: toasted marshmellow? I’ve tried ones like that they were disgusting. fried chicken? black pepper? vomit? grass? dirt? boogers? ear wax? sardines? Did you know that you can get these flavors of jellybeans at harrypotter.com? Yeah. 3235. What's at the center of the earth? Lava. 3236. have you ever wondered where holidays come from? I’ve wondered about the origin of some, yeah. 3237. Do you think there should be more movies shown in 3D? I don’t like watching movies in 3D. 3238. Are you just another brick in the wall? Yep. 3239. Write a haiku (a poem with 3 lines, 1st line is 5 syllables, second line is 7 sylabels, 3rd line is five syllabals): Nah. 3240. Are you cautious and tame? Usually. 3241. Do you like to eat at Subway? I used to. I haven’t been there for awhile. 3242. Is 42 the meaning of life? No. 3243. Would you agree that a blade of grass is nothing less than the journeywork of stars? What. 3244. Do you want to die? No. 3245. If someone was studying 'the humanities' what the hell are they studying? People and culture. 3246. Is this question REALLY is this question 3246? ??? 3247. Do you want to dieT? No. I’m supposed to be on a protein diet, though. 3248. What is colder, your feet, or the floor? Neither at the moment. 3249. What is older, your mouth, or the door? The door. 3250. Are you more beauty or more beast? Beast. 3251. Are we there yet? No. 3252. Scantron or handwritten tests? Scantron. 3253. What's that sound? The TV. 3254. True/false: To the maggots on the cheese, the cheese is the universe. True. 3255. What's the best treat to bring with you to elementary school for your birthday? Cupcakes. That was always so exciting as a kid. 3256. What would you expect to learn from self interrogation? I don’t knowww. 3257. When you feel cold does eating warm food help you feel warm? Eating Ramen does. 3258. Does being true to yourself mean saying 'screw everybody else, my shit is more important'? No. 3259. Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? No. 3260. Have you reckoned the earth much? I don’t know what you’re going on about. 3261. Have you ever had a vision? I’ve kind of thought so sometimes. 3262. If you have a vision or belief and someone else has a conflicting vision or belief, how do you tell which one is valid? It’s what you believe. Are they both valid? To each individual it is to them. 3263. Why is everything based around proof and facts instead of intuition? Not everything is. 3264. What is the grass? It’s a plant. 3265. Have you ever supposed it is lucky to be born? I don’t believe in luck.

Is it just as lucky to die? 3266. What is it that you express in your eyes? Sadness. 3267. What is man anyhow? What am I? and what are you?

You’re getting too philosophical for me. 3268. You understand enough. Why don't you let it out? I don’t know how to express myself a lot of the times. 3269. What is less or more than a touch? What. 3270. Why should anyone wish to see god more than they wish to see this day? Because then we’d be with Him, and that is better than anything else. However, that time won’t come until you die.

3271. Have you guessed that after death you yourself would not continue? I used think there was nothing after death, but that was before I believed in God. 3272. Have you dreaded the earth beetles? 3273. Have you feared the future would be nothing to you? The future terrifies me. 3274. Is today nothing? It feels like it. 3275. Is the beginingless past nothing? I don’t know what you’re asking. 3276. Do you believe in a collective unconsiouss? 3277. Jung or Freud? 3278. What is a 'fate worse than death'? Hell. 3279. What are the 5 main things you think about?/ Health, life, my loved ones, coffee, and food. 3280. Name someone you know. My mom. What is the biggest thing you have in common with them? We enjoy a lot of the same TV shows and we both love to read. 3281. Do you think that laws sshould be passed to regulate human breeding? Noooo. 3282. Do you think they already exist in a subtle way? 3283. Why is it that so many people are demanding the death penalty as punishment for a wider and wider range of crimes? I don’t know. 3284. Is it partially to weed the nonconformists out of the gene pool? 3285. What does it mean to be free? To have nothing tying your down. 3286. What does it mean to be tamed or domesticated? To be disciplined. 3287. Is the human animal becoming more and more tame and domestic? Uhh.

If yes, what is causing this? are we becoming more or less free? Probably less. 3288. Are you embaressed about your naked body? Extremely. I’m very self-conscious.

If yes, is that freedom? I guess not cause I care too much about the opinions and thoughts of others. 3289. Are you the result of all of evolution up to this point? We have evolved over time of course. 3290. The murderous person...how does he sleep? I wonder how they just live with themselves doing what they do. 3291. Your mother...is she living? Yes. Have you been much with her? We live together, we spend a lot of time together.

and has she been much with you? Yes? 3292. Are these questions disturbing you? They just make my head hurt. If yes, why? 3293. What are you focused on? What I’m going to eat when I’m done with this. 3294. Have you ever admired wickedness? No. 3295. Is the acomplishment of one person the accomplishment of all humanity? I mean... some things are done for the benefit of others and not just one person, so I guess in that way, yes?

Why or why not? 3296. Is the imprisonment of one person the imprisonment of all humanity? No?

Why or why not? 3297. We're just following anchient history. If I strip for you, will you strip for me? No, and I’ll pass on your offer as well. Sorry. 3298. Have you ever wished you had not so many clothes? Sometimes cause I just have no room for it all, but I can’t seem to get rid of anything and I keep adding to it. 3299. What is the balance between conformity and individual freedom? Uhhhh. 3300. What do these things have in common: nakedness, sex, killing, fighting, shitting, death? You’re most likely naked during sex. Killing is death. Fighting could sometimes lead to death in extreme cases. I don’t know how shitting relates to any of it.

#it's so hard to get through these cause these questions are just like what in the actual....#personal #text #survey #surveys #5000 question survey

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surveysonfleek · 6 years

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564.

5000 Question Survey Pt. 34

3201. What if this is as good as it gets? i don’t believe that. 3202. Have you ever dated someone mostly or completely because of their looks? nope. 3203. What does the word 'of' mean? originating from. that’s the simplest way can describe it i guess. 3204. What should you never forget? all the great memories and experiences i’ve had throughout my life. 3205. How many of the 7 Dwarves can you name for us? all of them. happy, doc, bashful, grumpy, sneezy, dopey... omg maybe i can’t lol. i had to google it, i missed sleepy :(

3206. What animal does your mom resemble? haha none tbh. 3207. Have you ever had a palm reading? no i haven’t. 3208. What's a crazy thing you did that you got in trouble for as a kid? jumping on furniture at a furniture store. i didn’t think it was that bad lmao, i got told off and my mum was so confused. 3209. What do you battle against? nothing? 3210. Do piercings really make the pierced area dramatically more sensitive? once it’s healed, no. 3211. If you had put aside some money for a trip and the travel agent said he had 2 trips available in your price range during the week you want to go, which would you choose: a> a week in hawaii in a luxury beach resort b> a week in africa helping the red cross distribute food and medicine first option, ONLY coz i haven’t experienced straight up luxury before. 3212. Have you ever played with a dreidal? no. 3213. Did you know that Kraft is owned by a cigarette company? Does that bother you? i didn’t know and tbh it doesn’t bother me. i hardly buy kraft products to begin with. 3214. With all the information constantly rushing at you, how do you know what's important? i decide for myself. 3215. How is your life unlike a movie? it’s incredibly boring. 3216. Where is the most beautiful place you have visited? el nido, philippines. 3217. What is never going in your mouth? bugs. 3218. Are there really 5,000 different facts about you? probably! 3219. Do you like banana bread? love it. 3220. Who are you the most gentle and tender around? my boyfriend. 3221. If electrodes were inserted into your brain and a button was put into your arm so that you could push the button and stimulate an immeadiate orgasm would you forget about life and sit at home pushing the button until you died? no. i’d prefer getting an orgasm the natural way lol. 3222. Is there a difference between being scared and afraid? yes. 3223. Are you scared and/or afraid of death? to an extent. If yes, what is it about death? just not doing everything i’ve wanted to do in my life. The pain? not really. The separation? yes. the unknown? yes. the fear of nothing? eh, idk. 3224. What is existentialism? cbf. 3225. SUCCESS is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break, agonized and clear. by, Emily Dickinson What is Emily Dickenson trying to say here? idk. 3226. A college girl (maybe you?) blows a tire and pulls off the road in an unfamiliar residential neighbourhood. She is having trouble changing the tire when a man in his late thirties-ish comes over and asks if she needs some help. He changes her tire and offers to let her go into his house to wash her hands. She is dirty from trying to change the tire. Should she accept? no. i carry around hand sanitiser all the damn time.

She does accept and he gives her a tour of the house including the upstairs. The staircase in the living room leads directly into the master bedroom. The view out the window is beautiful. What are you thinking about this situation? honestly, it seems innocent, but i just find it weird someone would want to take a random person on a tour of their house. 3227. Are you too trusting of others? nope. 3228. What's the difference between a den and a living room? i have no ideas. they’re just lounges and living rooms to me. 3229. Write a stream of consciousness sentence: no. 3230. Who is the hero of all kids? their parents and/or guardian. 3231. Who do you tend to show more of your best side to, your family or strangers? my family. but they also know my worst sides. 3232. How do you think the harry potter series will end? haha it’s done. 3233. Name three things that would make really bad ice cream flavors: spaghetti, sushi and bbq ribs. 3234. Would you try a jelly bean if it's flavor was: toasted marshmallow? fried chicken? black pepper? vomit? grass? dirt? boogers? ear wax? sardines? Did you know that you can get these flavors of jellybeans at harrypotter.com? pretty sure i’ve tried these. 3235. What's at the center of the earth? who knows. 3236. have you ever wondered where holidays come from? history. 3237. Do you think there should be more movies shown in 3D? no, there’s already a lot of 3d movies. 3238. Are you just another brick in the wall? sometimes. 3239. Write a haiku (a poem with 3 lines, 1st line is 5 syllables, second line is 7 sylabels, 3rd line is five syllabals): no. it’s incredibly annoying to see this person has spelt syllables in three different ways though. 3240. Are you cautious and tame? yes. 3241. Do you like to eat at Subway? no. i haven’t eaten subway in forever. whenever i do, it’s really unfulfilling. 3242. Is 42 the meaning of life? huh? 3243. Would you agree that a blade of grass is nothing less than the journeywork of stars? idk. 3244. Do you want to die? not yet. 3245. If someone was studying 'the humanities' what the hell are they studying? it’s a really broad topic lol. 3246. Is this question REALLY is this question 3246? idk. 3247. Do you want to dieT? yeah, i need to lol. 3248. What is colder, your feet, or the floor? floor. 3249. What is older, your mouth, or the door? my mouth. 3250. Are you more beauty or more beast? beauty but i’m not talking physically. 3251. Are we there yet? nope. 3252. Scantron or handwritten tests? whaat? 3253. What's that sound? the fan. 3254. True/false: To the maggots on the cheese, the cheese is the universe. wtf lol. 3255. What's the best treat to bring with you to elementary school for your birthday? Cupcakes? probably cupcakes so it’s easily distributed. 3256. What would you expect to learn from self interrogation? idk. 3257. When you feel cold does eating warm food help you feel warm? sometimes. 3258. Does being true to yourself mean saying 'screw everybody else, my shit is more important'? not really. 3259. Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? no. 3260. Have you reckoned the earth much? no. 3261. Have you ever had a vision? nope. 3262. If you have a vision or belief and someone else has a conflicting vision or belief, how do you tell which one is valid? Are they both valid? they’re both valid. 3263. Why is everything based around proof and facts instead of intuition? not everything is based on proof, let’s be real. 3264. What is the grass? azz. 3265. Have you ever supposed it is lucky to be born? Is it just as lucky to die? no... 3266. What is it that you express in your eyes? boredom. 3267. What is man anyhow? What am I? and what are you? *yawn* 3268. You understand enough. Why don't you let it out? this is lame. 3269. What is less or more than a touch? - 3270. Why should anyone wish to see god more than they wish to see this day? they don’t. 3271. Have you guessed that after death you yourself would not continue? sure. 3272. Have you dreaded the earth beetles? no. 3273. Have you feared the future would be nothing to you? no. 3274. Is today nothing? no. 3275. Is the beginingless past nothing? no. 3276. Do you believe in a collective unconsiouss? no. 3277. Jung or Freud? no. 3278. What is a 'fate worse than death'? being tortured for years on end. 3279. What are the 5 main things you think about?/ work, life, what’s for breakfast/lunch/dinner, friends, weekends. 3280. Name someone you know. my boyfriend. What is the biggest thing you have in common with them? sense of humour. 3281. Do you think that laws should be passed to regulate human breeding? i think it’s problematic. 3282. Do you think they already exist in a subtle way? idk. 3283. Why is it that so many people are demanding the death penalty as punishment for a wider and wider range of crimes? probably so they don’t waste taxpayer’s money on housing criminals until they die of old age. 3284. Is it partially to weed the nonconformists out of the gene pool? idk. 3285. What does it mean to be free? do whatever you want without being judged. 3286. What does it mean to be tamed or domesticated? conforming into something that you’re really not. 3287. Is the human animal becoming more and more tame and domestic? If yes, what is causing this? are we becoming more or less free? ugh, idk. 3288. Are you embarrassed about your naked body? If yes, is that freedom? yes and no. 3289. Are you the result of all of evolution up to this point? somewhat. 3290. The murderous person...how does he sleep? some can just deal with it. 3291. Your mother...is she living? Have you been much with her? and has she been much with you? lol wtf. 3292. Are these questions disturbing you? If yes, why? they’re not, they’re just boring. 3293. What are you focused on? myself. 3294. Have you ever admired wickedness? um, no. 3295. Is the accomplishment of one person the accomplishment of all humanity? Why or why not? somewhat. 3296. Is the imprisonment of one person the imprisonment of all humanity? Why or why not? idk. 3297. We're just following ancient history. If I strip for you, will you strip for me? no lol. 3298. Have you ever wished you had not so many clothes? no. 3299. What is the balance between conformity and individual freedom? just doing you but abiding by society’s standards. 3300. What do these things have in common: nakedness, sex, killing, fighting, shitting, death? idk.

#survey #surveys #quiz #bored #questions

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notsosadpostgrad-blog · 5 years

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Hello Hello everyone! Wow whatta week – working 13 hour days and having no time for the gym and healthy eating has been hard to say the least, but I was able to see friends last week and later on this week, and even though the physical health goals weren’t exactly hit, I can easily say that I am content in the company I keep whether it be my close friends or my dog.

Anyway, onto today’s typing word vomit…

I remember the days where I wanted to be a dentist. I mean, I always loved reading but DENTISTRY? It was the end-all-be-all of my adolescence…and then 7th grade algebra and Twilight happened. Yes, the true buildup of teenage angst making a heck of a nightmare in my 13 year old self.

Due to my utter hatred of the vampire series’ writing style and even deeper hatred of numbers and letter existing on the same line, I found myself drawn into rewriting the series instead of paying attention in science class. Add that the me actually having a panic attack when reading a character death in The Hunger Games: Mockingjay and by the end of middle school, I was fully immersed in literature, averaging 5-6 books a week.

And it continued throughout high school as I found myself spending almost all my paychecks at Barnes&Noble, turning to typing hundreds of pages on my new laptops, graduating with three finished stories and the idea that being an English and Education major will pave the way for me to love what I do more and more.

However, college is the preview for real life, and it is not just a school day with many hours free to get a book done. As I became more involved at Merrimack, I started bringing less and less books from home, for I never had time to read, and instead of writing books, I turned to writing thesis papers and researching methods. Unfinished books became forgotten, and when I tried to restart, I truly could not find that muscle memory. Poetry became easier when I studied in Dublin, and I even attempted to start a poetry Instagram page, starting to regain confidence in my pen’s work.

Then…I got rejected again and again from different publications, graduating from college with no creative works being accepted, when almost all the other students in my major had.

Now, you could say that I am a very wound up individual, harboring an immeasurable amount of anxiety, and PSA, my inner mental workings will be discussed a lot more, but for now, I will make this point clear and concise: I am my own worst enemy.

I thought I could do nothing, so I can truly say that I gave up. No one liked my writing, so why should I? I let myself down, focussing on what was needed in my life instead of what was wanted. No more.

Here I am setting new goals. I have a room of books ready to be read. I have Bath And Body Works candles ready to burn and inspire my writing. And what are my goals?

The Bookcase

The Inspiration

A Poem A Day: I miss the days of feeling weightless while writing, and because of the busy schedule I have right now, writing for chunk of the day is proving to be a process. Instead, I must resort to one of my two writing loves and attain what I always wanted…finishing a whole notebook with my poetry. Notebooks and I have always had a strange relationship, for I have never been able to finish that last page as if I am afraid of it. I think I am. So no more. A notebook will finally be filled with just me and only me.

I Am Writing A Book: I have the ideas. They are in my head. I have the characters ready to act out what I need, so I am ready to become them and engulf myself in my own thoughts. I must know that my thoughts are safe, and they are good. I accept my own writing even after being rejected so many times by others. I deserve to write everything out because I believe that as a writer, if I don’t write, am I really alive? I know that sounds dramatic, but this is my life, and I desire to feel that need again. Publication is not the goal; finishing is.

New Things To Read And Learn: Besides my bookcase, there are things I want to know besides creative works. I want to read classics for fun, and not because a professor told me I was supposed to. I want to go into Barnes&Noble, exploring the biographies and nonfiction sections, taking the time to learn more about different genres, time periods and storytelling. Finally, I want to learn about things that make me excited. For example, I never learned much about astrology or health, and hey let’s throw in some cooking books and how to take care of myself and live independently. It’s time to just drown again.

Keep Writing These Blogs: Of course.

July 18th. Let’s become passionate again. Onward and into the pages.

CjB

I Couldn’t Math so Here I am with an English Degree: Reading and Writing and (yet again) Rambling Hello Hello everyone! Wow whatta week - working 13 hour days and having no time for the gym and healthy eating has been hard to say the least, but I was able to see friends last week and later on this week, and even though the physical health goals weren't exactly hit, I can easily say that I am content in the company I keep whether it be my close friends or my dog.

#New

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letterstoocean · 7 years

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ocean,

another chapter out and done. This hurts so much but i can feel the weight lifiting off me. The pain going away...

Chapter Seven

Searching for the music between the music. Trying to find the notes between the notes he woke up from a dreamless sleep that was all him and him alone.

Something felt different as he tried to wake.

Like a weight that held him down was no longer there.

He was silent inside.

Just. Silent.

He sat up and in a half in half out daze of sleeping and not sleeping, he looked around at the studio and saw the carnage of what it took to get the story out.

“Ouch.” was all he said.

He looked down and saw his shirt was covered in vomit, paint and what maybe looked like blood. The smell of sweat was coming off him like a dark onion rotting on a hot summer day. That just about gagged him in his state of mind. He ran his hand over his face to keep from puking and felt several days of stubble.

“Jesus, how long have I been in here?” he said as he got up and zombie walked to the shower.

Contemplating time he stood underneath the hot water until he felt somewhat clean enough to not sit in his own filth and put the stopper in the tub.

Sliding down into the steam he felt like a serpent shedding a skin. A heavy vomit covered paint stained skin.

He grabbed the tape recorder from the side of the tub, pressed play, tossed a wet handkerchief over his eyes and as he sat back took a deep sigh.

“Feels like I am floating. Like I am not me. I am me, but a me I have never seen or felt before. Wait is that right?”

Pulling the stopper out with his toes he laid back and let the water drain. Once it was gone he filled the tub with hot water again. “For me, home has been a constant fire that keeps rolling downhill. Sometimes I am chasing the flames trying to get some warmth. Other times I am running from the flames afraid I will get burned. But now...”

He turns the water off with his toe and slowly slides into the steam.

“Now it feels like the flame is inside of me. And I don't know if it is keeping me safe and warm or burning me up.”

He began to sweat then. A deep sweat that pulls out things you have held in for too long. Each drop sounded like a nail being removed from a closed coffin lid and felt just as painful. Sweating it out he heard the creak and moan creak and moan as each nail echoed and hit the still water and sending a ripple away from him.

“Perhaps that is what you have been running from all these years.” she said walking into the room. “Running from yourself. Running from that fire. Always afraid of the home that is inside of you.”

She sat on the floor, handed him his Winnie the Pooh cup filled with hot coffee, rested her head on the side of the tub and smiled, “Welcome back.”

“Hi.” he said with the typical nervous goofy smile.

“Hi.” she smiled back.

“I didn't think I would make it back from this one.” he said leaning forward and kissing her head.

“I knew you would.” she kissed him on the lips and rested her head on his. “You always do.”

“You are still here.” he whispered and sighed.

“Always, love.” she sat up and slid the mug towards him. “You need to wash all of this away and move on. You seriously stink.”

She grabbed the sponge and peppermint soap and started scrubbing the paint of his back as he leaned forward and drank his coffee.

“Wow.” she said laughing, “did any paint hit the canvass this time, love?”

He laughed.

“My grandfather used to say to me 'I hope you don't fuck like you create boy.”

They both laughed as she leaned in, bit his ear and whispered, “You do.” She squeezed the sponge out over his head, “But that is a good thing. Passionate. Full of fire.”

She threw the sponge at him and stood up, “Drain it again. Rinse off in the shower and I will climb in the tub with you. Going to get more coffee.”

With himself and the tub clean he fell back into the water and grabbed a pen and tablet off the floor.

That perfect precise moment when intimate moments refill our souls...

Under a steaming shower taking time to completely soap the sponge with our favorite soap, you caress my entire body letting the soap, your hands and song work deep into my bones.

Standing under the water I lean my head back and let the day fall from me and down the drain.

Rinsing the sponge and working the soap like a sculpture to clay, I treat your body with the same care your hands did on mine.

Lingering in places where muscles are tense, tight and need a release, I stay there until they relax.

Loving the sounds you make I stay even longer in places where you moan and put your hands on my shoulders for support as your legs begin to shake.

Time is weightless as we embrace beneath the water.

Heads resting on shoulders as arms hold tight, close and we become one.

Distance keeps us from doing these things right now so I create them with my words and images. Sharing them with love, lust, desire and all of my heart.

A powerful, beautiful song we share until I find the roads back into your arms again...

“Ready for me?” she asked walking in the bathroom.

“Always.” he sighed set the pen and tablet on the floor and smiled, “come join my weather for awhile.

She slid out of her clothes and tested the foot with her water.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are.” he asked caressing her calf with his finger.

“You have not.” she stepped into the tub with a hiss of breath, slid down into the water and leaned back into his arms, “You should do that.”

“You are so beautiful” he bit her ear gently and rubbed his nose against her cheek, “You are so beautiful that your beauty brings a light into my dark. You are so beautiful that with you my darkness is a comfort, not a fear.”

She sighed, leaned her head back against his shoulder.

“You are so beautiful that you still take my breath away and the flutter byes in my stomach fly with every touch and smile from you.”

He kissed her on the lips then. “That is how beautiful you are to me.”

“Thank you.” she whispered.

“Anytime. Every time. All the time. For the rest of our lives.” he replied.

He grabbed one of the rose stems from the cup he kept them in and twirled in it is hand as his other one caressed her skin.

“I have never told you why I chew on these have I”

“I figured you would get to it in time.”

“It was the same time and place as the Turtle incident...”

Rose Stems and the Black Queen

After the turtle incident I felt so alone. So weak. So scared. No terrified. Just terrified of life. Terrified of mom leaving me with Bruce and never coming back. Terrified of Bruce cutting my throat in the middle of the night.

This fear made me school even worse. I completely gave up and just stared off into space. I stopped my schoolwork and just went away in my head.

The sound of the kids laughing at me and calling me names vanished into the background. Just an empty shell with choes bouncing around in it.

One day I was walking to school when I ran into a group of bullies that had been tormenting me since I arrived in Pearland. Bullies always have a leader and as I walked closer to them he smiled in anticipation of either chasing or catching me.

I saw him mouth to his buddies, “look who it is.” They ran after me and I took off. Knowing they were getting close to me I ducked into the first door I saw. They stood outside and waited; all good bullies know not to start anything in a building. Grownups always break it up or inform their parents.

I turned around and saw that I was in a small grocery store. I walked around hoping they would get bored and leave.

Eventually, a woman with blue hair, sparkling glasses on a gold chain and a big warm smile came from behind the counter and asked if I needed any help.

I’m not sure why but I pretended to be deaf and dumb. The lady gave me a sincere smile, grabbed a pen and paper and wrote the question down again. I wrote back that I was hungry but not sure what I wanted.

She wrote back, TAKE WHAT YOU WANT SWEETIE.

I grabbed one of the homemade sandwiches from the cooler and fumbled around in my pockets pretending to look for money that wasn’t there.

DON’T WORRY ABOUT MONEY. YOU COME BACK WHENEVER YOU ARE HUNGRY.

Every day after school I would stop and write a poem, a story or give them a drawing and they would feed me. All the while I pretended that I was deaf and dumb. I wasn’t mean to the ladies. I never took more than they offered but I did feel guilty about what I was doing. It didn’t stop me from doing it. I was hungry; and the bullies would never follow me into the bodega.

One day before school, the bullies were chasing me and I was nowhere near the bodega or the school so I ran into a Safeway grocery store to hide and to wait them out.

I decided to make myself a sandwich while I was in the store. I opened a bag of Wonder Bread to get a couple of slices when I heard a woman behind me yell “hey!”

Startled, I jumped and spun around expecting an employee to pounce on me. Instead it was one of the ladies from the bodega. I realized that I had jumped when she yelled and I ran out of the store and through the group of kids waiting for me.

I honestly believe that I ran faster from the smiling Bodega lady than I ever ran from the kids. I really did hate lying to her and now I was caught. I didn’t want to face that fact.

I slowed down enough to walk into a barbershop to hide.

Never run through a doorway.

Always walk in with some sort of confidence.

Confidence is a damn good weapon to have.

Running through a doorway into someones world lets them know you are scared and don’t care if they know it.

That’s a secret you can’t afford to let out.

The lessons that Gary: The Convict Next Door taught me rang in my head and I stood in the doorway and smiled.

“Have a seat, Come enjoy our weather for awhile.” Said a white leathery old man sharpening a straight razor on a belt attached to the barber’s chair.

Sitting in the chair was a small black man that looked to be a hundred and ten years old. He had a giant white afro with poofy sideburns to match. There was a black pipe clenched between his teeth and white smoke drifted from between them every time the man took a breath.

Next to the big window that looked out on to the street, two men sat at a table staring at the pieces on a chess board. One of them looked exactly like the man sitting in the barber chair. The other man was white; he wore a black suit with a string tie like the jazz musicians wore in New Orleans. He was very tan with long black hair that was showing some gray. He was bald with several scars on his head. He looked to be squinting at with one eye closed more than the other. Chewing on a small stick with great focus on the chessboard he didn't even look up at me.

I looked at the door thinking maybe it was better to run after all; but after a moment, I decided old smoky men were safer than young angry bullies and walked over to the bench.

“Relax, we’re all friends here.” Said the black man as he moved one of the chess pieces and then sat back and lit his pipe. “So what brings you to the barber shop? Since you should be in school?”

I began to elaborate one of the many lies that just seemed to roll off my tongue; instead I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my feet.

“I’m going to guess it was those other yard apes chasing you up and down the street all the time.” Said the bald man with the stick in his mouth. His voice was harsh, dry, and very deep. Each word a voice to it as it came out.

“Yes sir.”

“Well,” said the man moving a chess piece and sitting back, “You’re safe here.”

The barber brushed off his seat after the man got up and took a long look at me, “Is that him?”

“That’s the little artist. Not a very good actor though.” Said the white guy. He looked at me, the small stick moving around in his mouth as he talked. “The ladies know you aren’t deaf. Felt sorry for you. I can see why. Seen you wearing those same clothes for a month now.”

The barber brushed the seat off, put a smooth white board across the arms and smacked it.

“Have a seat, get that mop cut. Name’s Clive. What’s yours?”

“Christophe, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money.”

“Didn’t ask for any. Now hop up here.”

As Clive worked his way through my hair that hadn’t been cut in two years I watched the two men play chess.

“The black man is Anthony. His twin over there is Timothy; call him Tim.” They both nodded at me. “The crusty Italian is Giovanni.” Clive said as the scissors snipped away.

The scissors flew and my hair hit the floor as Giovanni and Tim played their game.

“I do believe we are at a stalemate.” Giovanni said leaning back.

“All done.” Said Clive pulling the cape away with a swoosh and brushing the hair off my neck with a very stiff brush. He brought a jar full of Dum-Dum suckers down from the shelf, opened it and offered me one. I took a green one, said thank you and returned to the bench.

I quietly sat in the barber shop and watched men come and go. Some received haircuts; others sat on the bench chatting with me. Around noon a large woman stopped by. She unfolded a small poker table, snapped a checkered board table cloth out and draped it over the top. She then set out enough food to feed an army.

She counted the number of men around the room and got as many plates. She scooped out lunch and passed it around.

Then she looked over at me above the rim of her glasses. Sniffed, scooped some spaghetti out, looked me up and down and scooped some more. She thrust the plate under my chin, “someone should have been feeding this boy. Look how skinny he is.”

“That is my sister Gloria.” said Giovanni, “If you know what is good for ya, you will eat.”

The plate had to weigh five pounds as I set it on my lap and dug in. Halfway through the meal my stomach felt like it was going to burst. The other men were taking their empty plates to the large woman to be cleaned. I looked around for some help and no one looked me in the eye. The woman shook a finger at the plate and I kept going.

Somehow, I finished it all and wound up falling asleep on the bench. I didn’t hear the woman leave; I didn’t hear people come and go.

I felt a hand shake me awake as a voice laughed.

“Wake up, dirty one. Time to close shop.”

I sat up rubbed sleep from my eyes and looked around. The lights were out and Clive stood at the front door with keys in hand. Giovanni stood over me smiling.

“My sister’s pasta has killed men. If it didn’t kill them it made them stronger. You stick around and she will either kill you or make you strong enough to take care of those lil bastards that have been chasing you. But for today it’s time to head home. Where do you live and I will give you a ride.”

I automatically began to lie. I never told anyone where I lived in case they wanted to talk to my mom. And if they realized she was never home they may wind up putting me in a foster home or worse. I told him I could walk home.

“I need to walk the food off.”

“I don’t believe you. Tell me where you live.”

The look that man gave me told me people listened to him and obeyed him or else.

I told him.

For the next week I hung out at the barber shop and didn't go to school. I didn’t have to worry about school calling home because we didn’t own a phone.

Every day at noon Gloria showed up with a pile of food. They always kept saying the same thing. Fatten me up to take care of the bullies.

“Now what you need to do.” Giovanni said in his scratchy voice. “What you need to do is just go fucking crazy! Crazy is good at times.”

Slapping the back of his into his palm and that rose stem in his mouth he smiled, “Just. Fucking. Go. Crazy and beat the biggest one. Bite him, rip his eyes out. You do what it fucking takes to win kid!”

I would leave the apartment in the morning and hide in the bushes until the kids were almost at school and then I would go to the barbershop. But one morning I left too soon and the main bully and his crew found me.

The kids name was Derrick. He had been held back twice and towered over ll the other kids. He always had this evil grin on his face like he enjoyed the malice he inflicted. There were four smaller kids that hung with him hoping to one day be just as mean as he was and followed everything he did.

I wasn't going to make it to the barber shop before they caught me so ran behind a taco bell hoping to get to the alley and to another street.

But the kids got smart and I didn't see them split up. As I was running I saw one of them step out from behind the dumpster and tackled me so hard that it knocked the wind out of me.

I was on the ground gasping for breath when I heard the red wings on the concrete and derrick say, “Hold him down.”

The kids held my arms and legs, laughing as they did and Derrick sat on my chest.

First he grabbed my hands and hit me in the face with them saying, “stop punching yourself. Stop punching yourself.”

Bored with that he then would get a trickle of spit hanging off his lip and let it fall to my face. Right before it hit me he would suck it back into his mouth.

Then bored with that he started punching me. Over and over and over.

“Keep him down!” he said as he got up and walked over to to a pile of dog shit and stepped in it.

He came back and as I squirmed and kicked and tried to get up he stood over me laughing and started to step on my head with his boot.

All I can now remember is seeing that boot coming down over and over again on my face.

Then there was nothing.

I do not know how I got loose. I don't really remember anything except hearing that scream in my head when Bruce held me over the sink. Then I was screaming and snarling and somehow I had knocked derrick down and fell onto this back, grabbed his throat, and bit down on his ear. I felt his hot blood squirt in my mouth and that made me even angrier.

Screaming and snarling even more I grabbed his hair in my hands and pounded his head into the cement.

“Leave! Me! Alone!” I screamed with each smack of his head to the concrete.

I felt some one pull me off of him.

Then there was nothing.

I was sitting in the principals office crying. I still had dog shit and blood all over my face as he stood over me sounding like Charlie Browns parents. Incoherent and gibberish as he told me how horrible I was.

“You are getting popped. Do I need to call your parents?” he asked grabbing the paddle from behind his desk.

I shook my head no.

He wasn't even going to let me clean my face before he did it.

I placed my hands on his desk and he hit me ten times with that paddle then sent me to class.

I didn't go to class.

I ran to the barber shop and as I walked in they all stood up clapped and laughed.

Especially Giovanni. He was laughing and imitating me smashing Derricks head in, “I told you. I told you. You did it kid.”

One of them grabbed me in headlock and rubbed my head gently with his knuckle. Several pats on the back and Gloria walked up with a wash cloth and clean clothes.

After Gloria cleaned me up and fed me Giovanni motioned for me to sit at the chess board with him.

“It's time you heard a story.”

He tapped the table with his hand, staring at the chess board; gathering his thoughts before he spoke.

“We all fall in love.” He held up a finger. “Once. Tru Both souls involved.”

He took the stick out and held it between his fingers. “My love was Raquel. We met in Italy as teenagers. We fell in love, we danced through life and we married. We were going to grow old together.”

He grabbed the black queen off the board and turned it slowly in his fingers.

“I took over the family business. We moved to America. We became rich. Every day of our lives together when I came home from the killing and corruption, I would pledge my love for her and give her a rose and whisper, “I made it my love. And I would kiss her. Kiss her deep and she returned the kiss with even more depth.”

He grew silent and kept turning the queen around in his fingers.

“She died, didn’t she?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes, yes, of course she did. All good love stories have a death in them or they would not be good love stories.”

He passed the black queen over to me and gently slid the rest of the pieces off of the board.

“You win.” Then with a deep sigh he said, “I chew on these because on her death bed she told me our love would not die even after she did.” He pulled the stem from his lips and held it just like he held the black queen.

“I chew on rose stems to remind me that love doesn’t die. That love is always there on the lips to be said, or shared.”

He sat back and stared at then and was quiet for several seconds.

“You did good today kid. You need that fire and anger to survive. But remember this. Do not let that anger override the love in the world. It is all around you in different forms. Always keep love in your heart. Always always remember that.”

I told him I would.

Mom came home that night and woke me up with the usual whisper, “Wake up baby. We are leaving.”

I was so grateful that I think I jumped up from my sleep and ran to the car of the new boyfriend and didn't look back.

It didn't hit me until later that day that I did not get to say goodbye to the barber shop crew. It seemed I never got to say goodbye to the people that were important in my life.

But now I realize I never really did say goodbye. They have been with me all this time and always will be.

Love is like that and always will be.

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