I had a whole post written that waxed poetic about why I decided to start sharing my not so great writing, but I’m not going to make you wade through all of that when I can just say this:
- Writing is hard and it isn’t always pretty
- Sometimes we write things that we don’t like but it helps us get better anyway
- I want to start being more honest about my process and show others just what a mess writing can be
- Writing doesn’t always have to be serious and neither do you.
With that said I’m going to start posting all my ridiculous and messy practice words. Whether it’s poetry (laughably bad poetry), an essay, or short story, or sections of my new manuscript, I’ll try to get it up here for you to see. Probably not every week because life happens, but more often than not. You’re welcome to join in! For now here is a little something I started but didn’t finish:
The sun is shining in a way that does little to block the glaring darkness that seeps itself in my body. I cover my eyes and all it does is make the pain brighter, hungrier, more unstable.
Mother came in earlier and pulled apart the heavy, red, velvet curtains because she loves to torture me. She wants the light to eat away what little bright spots remain inside my soul.
I drop my hand from my eyes, no longer desiring the shield, and fist the blankets. I could lay in the warmth my body created after a long night’s rest but the sound of movement from the hallway breaches through my door. Forcing myself to stand, I grab my silk robe and make my way downstairs.
The statues move when I walk past them. They pull away in jerky movements, the sound crunching in my ears and down the hall. Echoing until I can’t stand it any longer and cover my ears until I reach the stairs. My presence repels. It can’t be helped. One look at the darkness that looms beneath my eyes and people turn away. They run. They avert their gazes. It’s written all over my face. What I am. An unwanted stain. A reminder to what once was and will never be again.
Thick tendrils of my hair fall loose from my hair tie and I pull it out and remake the bun. Cold seeps through the soles of my feet as I walk along the dark hardwood floors. I want to check my reflection but all the mirrors were removed from the house years ago. I don’t know what I look like anymore. I can only imagine and remember from before. What little I do is of a small child with dark lashes and dark eyes and dark hair and skin a few shades too light to be healthy.
Mother stands in the kitchen, cooking by the sink. I glance at the microwave. Do I dare check for my reflection on its sleek surface and risk invoking her wrath? I tap a finger against my thigh while my legs contemplate their next move.
“Don’t you dare,” Mother doesn’t bother turning from the stove.
I let out a small breath and approach the table.
“Don’t I dare what?” I ask.
Mother’s movements still, the spatula in her hand hovering over the pot. “Not today. Don’t you pull that with me today. You know what day it is. I need you to behave.”
I sit down on a chair and swallow the lump forming in my throat. Of course. Today. I know exactly what it is. The lump drops down low until it hits my belly and floats there until I think I might throw up. Today the darkness will try to eat away what bits of light I have left. Today I might become everything I am afraid of. Everything everyone else can see but I can’t feel.
And that’s it. That’s all I have. No idea where this story is going or if I will ever try to finish it, but it was fun to write. It’s not perfect, it needs work, but I’m still proud of it. Hope you all enjoyed!