hi, it's time for writing
hi there :)
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling a lot of rage about everything that’s going on. I was putting off the writing process.
I have an infuriating habit of avoiding the practices that help when I need them most desperately. Just like exercising and showering and eating nourishing food, I avoid writing when it should actually be at the top of my to-do list. When I finally followed prompt #3, it truly did help to get something hard and painful out on the page. I’m not cured of the anger, of course, but it eased the sore spot a little bit.
So let this be your reminder: do that thing you’ve been putting off, the one that you know will invigorate or soothe something in you.
Have a good week, my friend. Here's a poem I used to teach in class when I taught English: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins. And another I read today: Believe, Believe by Bob Kaufman. Also, enjoy our two moving reader pieces from last week’s prompt.
r creatrix’s piece: A Letter to myself, age 12
Hi Ry,
I'll start this letter by reminding you that you are loved and accepted. I know it doesn’t feel like it sometimes, just remember that it’s true.
Things have changed dramatically in the last few months and now you, and our very exhausted Mom, have found yourselves on the Central Coast of California. It’s nothing like the places you’ve visited on traveling adventures with family if anything (since this is the month of January) it’s grey, dreary, and where you live, there are no other... black people, like yourself.
For the first time in your young life, you are asked to identify yourself in a way that seems quite annoying and frankly, none of these folks’ business. You are asked why you look the way you do, dress the way you do, walk, talk, and act the way you do. This comes after a summer spent with paternal relatives in the Midwest, where you were asked the same things, but the alienation didn’t hit quite so deep. You were surrounded by a family who loved you, and all was almost forgotten once the cool evening fell and you held on to the shoulders of your cousins on a long bike ride through the neighborhood. The literal cold you feel from being frozen out of social groups at your new school has to do with stereotypes of your blackness and class in this new wealthy area, but you don't know this yet. You see it, feel it, and know it, but just don't know what to call it yet.
Here, at your new home, it’s almost like you are a new addition at the world-renowned aquarium a couple of exits away from your new home, and in defense (fueled by trauma and system social issues that have been alluded to but not spoken in-depth about yet), you entertain their questioning with stories. Fantastic stories and fantasies that you write about in concentrated bouts, crouched in the corner of your day bed, or planted on the stoop of the porch. These stories are inspired by historical figures long gone, fantasy realms created by the writers you love, and your own bubbling chamber of creativity. Anything is better than reality, your reality, which you feel will inspire pity, as it does on the faces of your friends’ white parents when they inquire about your black and single mother. These stories are lies, comforting ones, ones that protect you, Mom, and your new life in this very different and seemingly cold, and unwelcoming place.
I’m here to tell you that your story- your true story- is much better than anyone that you can make up. Your real story, your truth, and your history are rich in sound, color, music, light, and love. There is all of that, all of that and indeed the darkness that you know well. Know that there are people who care for you and love you, and want you to thrive academically, mentally, and emotionally. Keep dancing, staying physically active, keep writing, keep writing music and performing it for your bemused and entertained family, they love it. It makes them laugh, keep making them laugh. Remember that you can be yourself and that is enough, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Almost too easy, isn’t it?
One more thing, find joy in your dramatically different life, but keep your long-term goals in sight. Do it for you, the things that will make you into the person you want to be, not who you think you should be. This is something older you are still working on, and probably will always be! You’re weird, that’s for sure, but you are fine that way.
aaron shay's piece
to whom it may concern...
it feels sort of disingenuous to begin this way but if im being honest im not sure who I feel most compelled to speak to. its always felt more like a team sport anyways. let the toxic machismo that isn't us get uncomfortable as we each get a participation trophy.
I know I still communicate with the old me somewhere out there. threads you tug on, a lineage of interests.
like an embarrassing band you once liked but it led you to like this band then this band then this band, etc.
like earlier this week on that bike ride where you chuckled to yourself after riding without using your hands for x amount of distance for the first time since you roamed old neighborhoods decades ago the same way.
like your fifth grade teacher's daughter unexpectedly passing away and how you cant help but think that that's the seed to a lot of your past and current anxieties.
like threads you tug on.
like tin cans on string.
like dial tones to missed calls to voicemails.
theres so much pulling- especially the older you get.
mom always said your a sponge. observing-looking for patterns. keen on detail and sensitive. regardless, im proud of us. im proud of you. keep all your trophies and return calls. ill be seeing you..
prompt #3:
Take a second to check in with yourself. What emotion or feeling do you have right now? Or what emotion has been keeping you occupied recently? Are there multiple? That’s cool, too.
Grab your timer and set it for five minutes. Take this time to write about this feeling in great detail. Give it shape. Is it an object? What size is it? Can it be connected to a color? Which? What is the scent of this emotion? If you could put your hand on it, what would you feel? Use your senses to flesh out the feeling.
After five minutes, you may be done. Or, you may wish to expand this metaphor into a larger piece. Maybe it’s cathartic just to get it out on the page. Whatever works for you, my friend.
ashley's pieces, Anger and Joy
I’m no stranger to anger.
Sometimes it’s soft as silk, so easy to slip into.
But it pulls too hard, carries me too deep.
I kick toward the surface, gasp for breath every time I can, when my head strains above the choppy surf.
Hold my breath as long as I can, but I’m only human. My lungs do not handle water well.
Where is joy?
Can anyone call it back, tempt it home with palm outstretched?
I promise to be good. I promise to feed it sunlight and thanks, if it’ll promise to stay just a little bit.