i want a writing practice that’s gentle. that’s consistent. that doesn’t shame me for not knowing what to say when all i can think to say is “hi” to the blank screen.
i want to let go of perfection. of punishment. of repentance.
i want writing to feel like i’m coming home.
when i have doubts about writing, i often think, who am i writing for? most of the time, it’s my parents—my mom. but when will i be able to write for myself?
will it always be this way? writing to grab someone else’s attention? who, even after they give you the attention they’re able to offer, still doesn’t seem to satisfy your yearning?
maybe this is where the fiction goes.
we write the same stories over, dress them up in different costumes and characters, all to say to the same person, “i hope you see me.”
i’m not sure how far my fiction goes though. i have trouble feeling fake.
it took me quite some time to realize fiction wasn’t two-faced, it was parallel. it offered an alternate reality; it didn’t negate the truth. in fact, it often highlighted the truth in new ways we might not otherwise see just looking at our central reality head on.
maybe these musings are something to be proud of in and of themselves.
a daily attempt at trying to commune with my own pantheon. (can you tell i’m reading the poppy war?)
i don’t mean to sound so self-important, as if gods reside within my psyche.
but i also do believe that of every single one of us—that the gods are closer to us than we may think.
there’s something spiritual about allowing ourselves to find the flow of our own thoughts—to put to paper unedited a chance to see who we are without filter.
i hated that sentence, but i won’t delete it.
i guess this is why they say it’s better to write by hand than at a computer. it’s more human. but what about blotting out the page?
can ink erase? or only obscure?
— misao
in case you missed it:
i still have pregnancy curls after my miscarriage
this post contains discussions of pregnancy loss, including brief mentions of blood, which may be triggering to some readers. keep your heart safe and do you, boo.
thank you so much for witnessing my writing!
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I love this piece—I’ve felt that same pull between writing for myself and writing to be seen.
misao u r such a wonderful writer. did i already say that in my last comment? well, either way, i want u to hear it
i love the point about fiction being parallel; about it offering an alternate reality and not negating the truth. it makes me think of the visionary fiction of octavia butler — the dreaming of worlds that can be