I don’t even know what I’m doing.
I should be writing a challenge piece. I don’t even know.
This reflection came about because Keiko nominated me for a “One Lovely Blogger” Award; it got me thinking about things my audience may not know about me (for purposes of fulfilling the challenge requirements). I love having a place where I’m 100% free to be my rambling self, but it got me thinking about my non-blog writing* (which you may indeed not know about, because why would I have mentioned it?) and about that other side of me that gets… um… gloomy… sometimes.
And I wasn’t even sure that I was going to post this because it became entirely introspective and rather personal and a touch emo…
And I’m feeling fine, I promise! I meant to talk about my writing in general, like current projects and the like*, but then this emotional word vomit confessional happened.
I mean, it’s like a journal entry wherein I spoke to someone else.
AND YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO PUBLISH A DIARY, SHOUJO; WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
I’m such the occasional dichotomy.
But hey. Let’s make some poor, oversharing decisions. Yay!! ❤
Because you may not know it yet, and if I’m allowed the sin of pride…
I’ve written since I was a child. Teachers, professors, and peers have told me that I do it well. They tell me that my work makes them feel. This seems only fair, since I’ve struggled with the intensity of my own feelings throughout life. I suppose that my extreme emotion can at least manifest this benefit to me, no?
I’m terribly empathic, and I can make you feel something.
My heart knew it that it had found what it called passion when I was about 16-years-old, and I spent my high school days with pencil in hand, writing manuscripts and journal entries like those of Harriet the Spy (abet kinder). College lead to midnight poetry jams and controversial short stories read during slam sessions. They weren’t always good, but they were real. I leaned a lot about where my passions rooted, and about both my skills and weaknesses.
I’ve dabbled in many genres and formats, and I studied closely under an amazing children’s author (who I can’t name because then you’ll know where I went to school, but she gives great life advice), but feeling something and conveying that something and making a person think have been the driving forces behind my more serious writing for years.
Most recently, my foray has been primarily poetic.
I’ve always loved poetry. (Have you read “Patterns” by Amy Lowell? You should…) The genre can capture so much using so little, and the shortest of scenes can tell a story more profound than some novels.
Conflict comes in that most of my own best pieces prove dark, and they have since I was young. It was once a running gag amongst my closest friends that only I could title a poem Joy that would make one want to cry. (I did and it did?) I come across quite bubbly in my ramblings, and rightly so as I’m generally a cheerful, silly person. But my usual highs are high and my occasional lows are low. I’ve always been a deep well of both positive and negative emotion.
Though I am most often in good spirits, occasionally my thoughts take me to dark places; those places scare me because of my past struggles with depression, but they produce some of my most profound work.
Those places are rare nowadays, but we all have our struggles.
I don’t share these works on the blog because of their dark nature and because they make me vulnerable, but I’m proud of them. The last thing I want is to drag someone down a slope of self-effacement or depression… but they’re honestly good.
And they aren’t all so dark that they’re scary. Some are simply introspective and vaguely morose by consequence, you know? Some are about the truths of life, or dynamics between people, or my anxiety.
But when I’m hurting or scared, and the darkest of it all comes exploding from my fingers and my mouth and my eyes…
At least there is that comfort, right? There is some beauty in that?
Anyway, you’ve seen a few of my I-wrote-this-in-literally-five-minutes-so-it’s-okay-if-you-hate-it pieces, usually Hakuouki inspired. I promise that my heavy stuff is better.
I’d love to self-publish an anonymous book of poetry and short story pieces someday. I’ve seen others do it with varying degrees of success. But could I justify projecting all of those downright negative or even vaguely melancholic feelings onto someone else? Could I do that? And what would the consequences be, if all I want to do is project positivity into the world? My emotional release isn’t intended to cause harm.
In any case, I say again that, if I’m allowed to be proud of something (and I think everyone should be allowed to feel good about themselves), it is this; I guarantee that my writing can make you feel something. Even if that something hurts.
*I’m ~150 pages into a YA novel that I plan to one day rewrite from scratch (taking on a totally different perspective and tone). I’ve also plotted out my fantasy/historical novel, and started the prose for a children’s book. (^^)
featured image from Praxisuwc.com