“I do not need someone to complete me. But if you wanted to, we could walk next to each other into whatever is coming next.”
— Meghan Lynn

Janaina Medeiros

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@whatkatelynwrote
“I do not need someone to complete me. But if you wanted to, we could walk next to each other into whatever is coming next.”
— Meghan Lynn
I HAVE SO MANY WORDS TRAPPED INSIDE ME BUT I FORGOT HOW TO WRITE / THE POEMS CLANG CLANG CLANG AGAINST MY CHEST / THE LIVES I HAVE NOT LIVED CANT STOP SCREAMING / THE GHOSTS ARE BACK AND THEY ARE HUNGRY THEY ARE HUNGRY / I FORGET TO LOVE YOU WHEN YOU GO MISSING / HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THIS KIND OF EMPTY / HAVE YOU EVER FELT THIS KIND OF EMPTY.
GOD YOUR ACHE IS ASTOUNDING– lily rain (via wont-time-love-us)
“Getting” yourself to write
Yesterday, I was trawling iTunes for a decent podcast about writing. After a while, I gave up, because 90% of them talked incessantly about “self-discipline,” “making writing a habit,” “getting your butt in the chair,” “getting yourself to write.” To me, that’s six flavors of fucked up.
Okay, yes—I see why we might want to “make writing a habit.” If we want to finish anything, we’ll have to write at least semi-regularly. In practical terms, I get it.
But maybe before we force our butts into chairs, we should ask why it’s so hard to “get” ourselves to write. We aren’t acting randomly; our brains say “I don’t want to do this” for a reason. We should take that reason seriously.
Most of us resist writing because it hurts and it’s hard. Well, you say, writing isn’t supposed to be easy—but there’s hard, and then there’s hard. For many of us, sitting down to write feels like being asked to solve a problem that is both urgent and unsolvable—“I have to, but it’s impossible, but I have to, but it’s impossible.” It feels fucking awful, so naturally we avoid it.
We can’t “make writing a habit,” then, until we make it less painful. Something we don’t just “get” ourselves to do.
The “make writing a habit” people are trying to do that, in their way. If you do something regularly, the theory goes, you stop dreading it with such special intensity because it just becomes a thing you do. But my god, if you’re still in that “dreading it” phase and someone tells you to “make writing a habit,” that sounds horrible.
So many of us already dismiss our own pain constantly. If we turn writing into another occasion for mute suffering, for numb and joyless endurance, we 1) will not write more, and 2) should not write more, because we should not intentionally hurt ourselves.
Seriously. If you want to write more, don’t ask, “how can I make myself write?” Ask, “why is writing so painful for me and how can I ease that pain?” Show some compassion for yourself. Forgive yourself for not being the person you wish you were and treat the person you are with some basic decency. Give yourself a fucking break for avoiding a thing that makes you feel awful.
Daniel José Older, in my favorite article on writing ever, has this to say to the people who admonish writers to write every day:
Here’s what stops more people from writing than anything else: shame. That creeping, nagging sense of ‘should be,’ ‘should have been,’ and ‘if only I had…’ Shame lives in the body, it clenches our muscles when we sit at the keyboard, takes up valuable mental space with useless, repetitive conversations. Shame, and the resulting paralysis, are what happen when the whole world drills into you that you should be writing every day and you’re not.
The antidote, he says, is to treat yourself kindly:
For me, writing always begins with self-forgiveness. I don’t sit down and rush headlong into the blank page. I make coffee. I put on a song I like. I drink the coffee, listen to the song. I don’t write. Beginning with forgiveness revolutionizes the writing process, returns its being to a journey of creativity rather than an exercise in self-flagellation. I forgive myself for not sitting down to write sooner, for taking yesterday off, for living my life. That shame? I release it. My body unclenches; a new lightness takes over once that burden has floated off. There is room, now, for story, idea, life.
Writing has the potential to bring us so much joy. Why else would we want to do it? But first we’ve got to unlearn the pain and dread and anxiety and shame attached to writing—not just so we can write more, but for our own sakes! Forget “making writing a habit”—how about “being less miserable”? That’s a worthy goal too!
Luckily, there are ways to do this. But before I get into them, please absorb this lesson: if you want to write, start by valuing your own well-being. Start by forgiving yourself. And listen to yourself when something hurts.
Next post: freewriting
Ask me a question or send me feedback! Podcast recommendations welcome…
You're not mine, but I'd be yours
Your lips taste like raspberry sorbet but your breath smells of Marlboro Gold And you gently glide your fingers through my tangled hair I whisper haikus into your ear, but you’re kissing a path down my stomach I’m disassembling your mind and compiling fragments as a key to your heart and you’re gently tracing my freckles figuring out how to make me yours And your bed becomes my cage Another night talking until our words became tangled with another’s tongue, my lips as plump as your lies Repeating the same mistake became a habit Strands of sun seep through the blinds as my heart is still dripping, beating, thumping You’re rolled over sleeping And we’re running out of time But I’m in it for as long as it lasts
This cat snuck into our house and would not leave so she became my model
How the honey flowed from her.
Anaïs Nin (via iwasadaisyfresh)
I love all of your poems!!
Thank you so much, that means a lot to me!
Whisper your darkest secret, baby you said you didn’t believe in love but what is this we are feeling between our ribs
Raw
[Red:Sight]
Electricity is dripping from me with the viscosity of syrup, slowly but then all at once, as I wait for you to requite my love. Red paint cracks in my arteries and red is the color I see when I play your name over and over again in my mind. Red is the unshapely sweater I wore the first time I saw you and you entered my veins like knives, swords and fingernails. Red roses painted the room, seen in each corner—alluring yet dangerous to touch. Red was the pleasure and the pain of being with you yet feeling alone. Red liquid glides down my throat, poisoning me before I decide I have sung my last song, you have cast your last seductive shadow on my blushing red cheeks –a moon breaking over my head.
Accretion of us
You assembled my 206 bones out of pixie dust stolen from Andromeda and your left rib I was your galaxy, constellations unwoven to form my freckles Ours was a celestial romance, swirling amongst black, blue and purple You promised me Saturn's ring while your mouth traced moon phases down a smooth canvas toward black lace As we danced on nebulas, my bones ground the pixie dust I swept it up and stored it in a jar, its contents glistening in the moonlight, my luminance quickly fading as each night fell I was created for you, but I ached to discover myself and you ached to explore a different galaxy Our pseudo love - as fiery as Venus - abruptly froze My pixie dust bones disintegrating while I fought to break free, I became just a milky splattering of stars now dull to both you and to me
You're not mine, but I'd be yours
Your lips taste like raspberry sorbet but your breath smells of Marlboro Gold And you gently glide your fingers through my tangled hair I whisper haikus into your ear, but you’re kissing a path down my stomach I’m disassembling your mind and compiling fragments as a key to your heart and you’re gently tracing my freckles figuring out how to make me yours And your bed becomes my cage Another night talking until our words became tangled with another’s tongue, my lips as plump as your lies Repeating the same mistake became a habit Strands of sun seep through the blinds as my heart is still dripping, beating, thumping You’re rolled over sleeping And we’re running out of time But I’m in it for as long as it lasts
My life is full of almosts.
"Every moment is a poem if you hold it right."
Lauren Zuniga
(via twloha)
I love you. I don’t mean I love you like the way I love my coffee with two sugars or the way I love an extra 10 minutes of sleep or the way I love soup on a cold day. I love you in a way I’ve never loved anyone before. I love you in a way that consumes me.
(via dude-whered-my-veins-go)
[Taste]
All you want to do is drown in a pool of your own tears when skin on skin still isn’t close enough, and you’re more in love with the idea of love than with the person between your sheets. You discover everything is fragile and things will change in the blink of an eye — you go to bed with one person and wake up with another. The lines between what you want and what you need are swirled together and taste like honey, and you decide it’s finally time to make a change when you realize you’d rather settle than face being alone. You don’t know if you can make it through another heartbreak so you build a cage around your heart, because they say if you repeat something seven times it becomes habit, and you don’t want the brokeness to stick around any longer.
[Touch]
Your humid breath on my neck sends chills down my spine and I melt myself into you more as I play with your sleeping hands, seeing if you’ll unconsciously lace your fingers with mine. I’m wrapped in your arms, unable to sleep, as the train’s whistle is echoing and the rain is splashing down, and all I can do is hold back tears because a human’s touch has a good way of tricking you into staying with the wrong person.
Six Word Story [Chain]
Everyone’s in love with someone else.