Having writers block is stressful, “like a deadly pen pal you talk to once a year;” yes I stole this quote from Supergirl. I’ve said that “I think my writing hates me and I think karma has fated me to be museless and restless”— I hope this doesn’t hold true for long. Writing these essays is hard, like I put a piece of me into the words and leave myself hanging on the page: exposed. I think my writing is read into more than it’s needed. Think my words are exaggerated to fit each mold. Think my words are not enough to express the ever-likely happenings of life.
I am a teen wolf, walking into sleepy hollow, like I am the grimm awaiting the big bang theory of the fandom. The fandom saved me. It made me see holy lights and blessed my thoughts like I would be given a chance at freedom. My writing suffered and I pledged allegiance to the fiction. It was me versus the 100 chances I never took, and I fired back as good as I got. Pet projects see me archiving on my own and I remember eyes watching me; hawk vision and all that jazz.
The first time I realized I liked writing, I was in the fifth grade and it helped me work through the machinations of being bullied. The first time I realized writing helped me, I was in the 10th grade and it was a relief to create stories with my friends back then and write new worlds galore. The first time I realized writing was good for me was every time I placed ink on paper or stabbed at a keyboard because I questioned myself endlessly.
I have a friend with anxiety, and I don’t know how to help them. That hurts me, so I just keep in contact and use cheesy lines from a made up language in order to be a good friend. I hope it is working, but I’m not sure and that worries me. I don’t know proper protocol or what to say that will help and I hope my words never come off as hurtful or pressuring.
I don’t know how to ask for forgiveness. My prayers seem like little messages in bottles set out to sea never reaching their destination, or at least I don’t know. Maybe my writing is deaf, so it cannot hear my pleas of come back to me. Maybe my writing and I have grown comfortable with each other. We are okay going without pants at home and morning breath isn’t so bad if the ink that flows through my toothpaste comes quickly. I don’t know how to fix these new terms that my writing and I walk. Feels like I am doing a dance on a tightrope, heart pounding irregularly and itches that can’t be scratched.
Look mom! A dog. This begins my nostalgic breakdown into forever made now, stalling and foreshadowing, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I am distracted.
My writing and I don’t talk anymore. I don’t know what forgiveness is or how to ask for it. Maybe if I personify it well, we can do the whole make-up sex saga and get it out of the way. I mean after all everything is easier to write when you turn it into a face you can punch.
Six down, forty-six to go…