Tag: writing

Ugh

Do you want to know what I am really getting tired of? Of course you do, why else would you be reading this? I’m growing tired of the endless amounts of writing advice I’m reading online.

See, everyone seems to think they are a writing expert, and so they pour countless hours of advice into blogs, pins, newspapers, etc. And they’re all titled pretty much the same way.

“What not to do in your writing.” “How to peg yourself as an amateur writer.” “How to write a story.” “Things you’re doing wrong in your manuscript.” And that’s just what I’ve seen on Pinterest in the past hour.

Every article contradicts the other. “Use ‘said’ to avoid sounding pretentious.” “Only use ‘said’ during dialogue.” “Avoid using ‘said’ entirely, as well as the weird very, as it makes you sound lazy.”

And then people wonder why do many beautifully talented people become crippled by their own fears and never publish a word, even though they clearly deserve it. From one article to the next, we are bounced around and told what we should and shouldn’t do, and it plants the seeds of doubt. Instead of thriving in our creativity, it suddenly chokes us. We question every word we type or write until our talent has been beaten within an inch of its life.

I grow tired of this. I’m tired of these articles and their doubt provoking material. There are SO MANY great writers, painters, artists, etc out there, and they each have their own style. One is not better or worse than the others, it’s all a matter of giving it all you’ve got until YOU are happy with your masterpiece.

Many people, including myself, need only one piece of advice:

WRITE. FOR. YOU.

Ignore the naysayers, ignore the “Well you aren’t writing in my style so clearly you’re doing it wrong” people. Make YOURSELF HAPPY. I can’t emphasize that enough. LIVE FOR YOU AND IGNORE THOSE WHO TRY TO TAKE YOUR HAPPINESS FROM YOU.

So there ya go. A bit of writing advice that I hope actually helps. And you know what? If you don’t want to take it, then you don’t have to, because that’s what you want to do.

Just write. Write for you. Don’t listen to stupid articles that do nothing but take away your dream and cripple your progress.

Happy writing.

I Wear My Emotions on my Sleeve

100 Writings in 100 Days

October 18, 2014

Writing # 3

My hands began to shake with anticipation as I lifted the razor from its hiding place. A thousand different emotions washed through me as I stared upon its gleaming blade. Cutting was always a last resort for me. Each time the blade left a line on my skin, I felt like I had failed myself and others around me. A lot goes through my mind as I press the blade ever closer, such as how to cover up the deed I was about to do.

I would have to trade all of my undershirts for t-shirts for a few days until the wounds healed enough to not stand out too badly from the others. Whatever I used to clean the wounds would have to be disposed of in the dead of night when I knew everyone was asleep. Most importantly, the razorblade had to be hidden in such a way that no one could find it but me.

I felt the first stabbing pain as the razor sliced my skin open, and the first trickle of blood began its journey down my arm. Then something caught my eye. I turned to look, and saw a pen sitting on the nightstand beside my bed. For a moment, the task at hand disappeared as I stared at the pen. New thoughts began to cross my mind.

The cuts on my arms do make me feel better. They turn an emotional pain into a physical one, and physical wounds can be taken care of and heal properly. The message they convey to others, however, does not even begin to scratch the surface of emotions I felt when I made the marks to begin with. When people look upon my scars, they look with disgust. They look with pitying eyes, or judgmental ones. They look upon me with sorrow, and wonder if they could have helped prevent it. They look upon me with worry, or curiosity. The worst one for me, however, is those who look upon my actions as “childish”, or “attention seeking”, when all I really wanted was to find a little peace within myself. Everyone wants to ask, but few are brave enough to hear the answers I’d give them. Truth be told, I’m not sure I am capable of physically telling them all that runs through my head.

The wounds convey all that is negative in my life, and they are a standing reminder of the weaknesses I felt. They stand to remind me of all that I survived. I began to wonder what would happen if I could find another way.

So I picked up my pen. I set the razorblade down, and instead of carving my emotions in nonsensical scars, I began to write upon my skin. Words began to appear as each passing thought inspired a new phrase to be written.

\

         Sadness
Betrayal
Anger
Pain
Hope
Heal
Want Peace
Alone
Lonely
Need Help
Be Proud
Love
Regret
Mistakes
Broken

                The words began to take a whimsical appearance as I gained confidence. I felt a strange peace begin to grow within me, similar to how I feel when I cut. I was shocked and amazed, so I wrote that as well.

                Confidence
Desire
Longing
Need
Happiness
This, too, shall pass

                When words left me, I drew patterns and pictures, abstract lines that crisscrossed and formed something beautiful. What once was a terrible and dark practice had turned into an art piece. Instead of everyone wondering what precisely I was feeling when I did this, the words were written plainly for all to see.

The pen is mightier than the sword, and we sometimes forget just how powerful words can be. I had forgotten that I am, and will always be, a writer. I have the tools around me to help, and it doesn’t always have to result in mutilation of my body.

By the time I was done and had set the pen aside, I stared upon to words and tried to memorize each of them. I went into the bathroom and washed them off, and no red mark remained. I would not spend the next few days worrying if my sleeve was raised too high, or scratching as they healed. I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw peace in my eyes.

Letter to my Soul Mate

I realize I’m a little late for my 100 Stories in 100 Days. I also realize that my first writing isn’t a “story”. I was thinking about this on my birthday, and decided to share it. Maybe I should change it to 100 Writings in 100 Days. Forgive my tardiness. Starting today, I begin the journey of 100 Writings in 100 Days. Wish me luck!

October 16, 2014
Writing # 1

To my soul mate that I have not yet met,

You do not know me, nor do I know you. One thing I know for certain, however, is that I have put a lot of thought into you. I often wonder if you do the same for me. Do you ever wonder who I am, where I am, and when we will meet? I have.

Am I going to meet you at the store one day when I’m out buying groceries? Will you stop to help me on the side of the road if I get a flat tire? Or will I accidentally bump into you and knock your things to the ground, just like in the movies?

I often wonder what you look like, dear Soul Mate. Do you have dark hair? Light hair? Is it long or short? But what drives me crazy with curiosity is what color your eyes are. Are they green or brown? Do they sparkle when you smile?

What does your voice sound like, I ask myself. Does it flow smoothly, or does it have a gravelly sound? What do you sound like when you laugh?

I know I’m not supposed to tell, because it will ruin it, but I dedicated my birthday wish to you. Do you do the same for me? That should tell you how much I wish to find you.

I picture what our life would be like together. I picture something comfortable, something nice. I picture a proper family with a dog in the backyard. I hear the laughter of our children as they run around carefree, and the steam from our coffee cups rise in the cool morning air.

One more thing I wish to know. Do you smile often, and is it genuine? Because I hope to see that smile as often as I can. I like to imagine it warming my heart on a cold day, and making my stomach do flips. I like to picture that smile making me weak at the knees.

Most importantly, however; do you love me as I love you? Can you accept me with all my scars, my broken pieces? I don’t want you to fix me, but maybe you could help me with the repairs. I would do the same for you. We can help repair each other.

I do not know who you are, where you are from, or when we will meet. But I hope, if you do exist, that you wish to find me as badly as I wish to find you.

Until we speak,

                Jackie Spade