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2018-09-18 23:55:55 (UTC)

a codependent relationship with my passion

September 18, 2018 Tuesday 11:56 PM

Wait so u ever love an activity so much that u feel guilty when ur not doing it? Or like—it hurts you deep in soulcrotch but ur like whatever it's fine heyeverythingsalrite. Eh. I know I can't live without it is the thiiiing I just can't. I don't know how to love the world if i am not writing about it. It's instinct. I've been doing it since before I knew what it really meant. I used to think it was telling stories, you know? I had these stories in my head, of odd-shaped islands and unicorns and and and there was this time I spent all day on the floor of my bedroom with my hips aching from the way they dug into the old hardwood and I spent that time writing in my notebooks (even back then I coveted notebooks—always had to get the ones that appealed to me most aesthetically, and then I kept them when I was done kept them on my shelf as little pieces of me). I was writing about a girl in an alternate world full of robots who is trying to get back to her huuuman dimension, but then while writing I kept worrying about the reactions of my side characters or of surrounding people and I also questioned my own reasons for making this, ultimately, a love story between a girl and a boy? Before I had words for it I was bothered by my own inherent bowing to the cliche of all the books I read and was moved by (I am thinking of Peter and the Starcatchers and other similar books). Not that these books were bad (although some prolly were lmao), but I didn't want to be like what existed, maybe because I didn't think I could do it better. I don't know.

And then that was all in elementary school, right? In middle school I still wrote a bit (my 7th grade teacher kept encouraging me, said I was good) but I got progressively more depressed until I think I pretty much came to a halt except for this diary which I updated (and still update) obsessively. It started in the summer before 7th grade when I googled "online diary" in a fit of emotional turmoil. I think I would've been 12 years old. Yeah. I had that diary on this site, then another, and then this one, I don't remember. This one lasted obviously.

And then I didn't really write fiction for years, at least not that I can remember. I focused more on visual arts but even then—not much. Didn't start writing again in earnest until the summer... before sophomore year? When I was inspired by rocks (yup). I wrote something bad and I remember I kept rewriting it over and over from different angles. And then my APUSH teacher said I was an amazing essayist and I wrote even more feverishly (fiction, but he didn't know that) and when I wrote my essays I wrote them 3 times instead of once and it only took that one person to tell me I was good for me to pour my soul into it even if I didn't believe them.

And from my bad story came my first complete short story, which at this point I have not read in—a long time. I just now went back and skimmed it, and it seems fine. I remember, now, that I put a lot of work into it. Months upon months, some consecutive and some not. A lot of research, too. I joined Quora and requested answers to my questions on the emergency call process, etc. Read a lot about the process of decomposition from the moment a person dies onward. I ended up submitting it as part of my writing portfolio to both the SUNY Purchase Creative Writing Program (where I got accepted), Brown (where I am), and Oberlin (after I was waitlisted—shortly after I submitted it, I was accepted and offered a LOT of financial aid, way more than any other school had given me, and I really really hope it was because of my writing. But it also could've been because of my research projects from senior year, which I also submitted). Ended up coming to Brown partly because of the open curriculum and partly because they have a renowned Literary Arts program.

I took my first creative writing class in

I stopped writing there because it was almost 1 AM and I wasn't finished with my homework. I will never complete this thought, but I remember in the end it had to do with me being unable or unwilling to believe that I can really do this—be a writer. Everytime I try to face my own thoughts outside my eyes I am just ripped up inside in a way that feels permanent but never imprints a lasting lesson. I'm still hurt foldoverfold (not even a phrase ok) from my last workshop class and from that class I took in high school, but I don't stop writing and part of it is because I am not sure I know how to live without documentation, translation, interpretation.