When I'm Trying To Write, 80% Of The Time Is Used Trying To Figure Out How The Hell Regular People Talk.

my coffee is good today, i'm rereading my old wip, and listening to the old playlist that drove that whole project to the finish line.

remembering why i started, i once thought, would have to come in a pivotal moment of my career: bagging an accomplishment, receiving critical acclaim, or making a name for myself.

who would've thought that it comes to me in a simple, cloudy Saturday, with feelings in my chest that says: i made you write before, darling. i'll make you write about me again.

Unrelated to writing:

I relate to this so much. I know what most common injuries feel like. Often times, the pain the person is feeling is the same or less than my normal levels.

It’s hard to not seem like an asshole sometimes, because the same person who thinks I’m being mean will literally leave me behind or make my life harder and say it’s no big deal.

And of course none of this is helped by me being black fem presenting. It’s like some people still believe those old studies that we don’t feel as much pain as other people. The second I let my face show how I feel, or heaven forbid I don’t sound pleasant and polite, I have too much attitude or I’m too angry. I’ve literally had people think I was trying to fight them when I was just gritting my teeth through pain they probably couldn’t handle.

Thanks for letting a bitter black bitch rant.

people assume that being physically disabled makes you more empathetic to the pain of others, but that’s not always the case.

for me, it feels unfair when others are in pain and don’t feel the need to hide that fact, because i have internalized the idea that i’m not allowed to talk about my own. it annoys me that, while most are typically understanding if a non disabled person doesn’t operate at their full capacity due to sickness or injury, disabled people are expected to function normally as if that isn’t our every day. as much as i want to feel solidarity towards a suffering person, it feels impossible not to be envious when their illness or ailment is temporary, but i will never, ever get a break from mine.

for obvious reasons i would never say any of directly to someone, because my pain doesn’t make theirs any less valid or real. still, i can’t help but feel that my disability has made me bitter and unkind, because i can’t help but compare my own experiences with theirs.

this is the reality of disability- it does not create perfect people. many of us are broken and struggle to connect with others because of our conditions, and that does not mean we are evil people

It’s frustrating when writing is your restricted (special) interest, and it’s all you wanna do, but you have things you have to do so you can use all your energy on it. Like it’s making me (more) depressed, but if I write now I’ll be too tired for poetry practice later.

(Sorry if this grammar is bad, again, I’m very tired and not okay)

I hate to break it to you, but they were right. You really do just have to finish that first draft. It can be a hot mess, but you can’t clean up a room that doesn’t exist

screaming, crying, throwing up, as I force myself to write a story i'm very passionate about and love writing and have no obligation to write except that i want to

I used to try and resist what comes naturally to my writing, fearing judgement. I have learned that, through writing what I am passionate, I get stuff done. This is your sign to add that thing to your WIP. You know what that thing is to you.

Writing is all fun and games until you have to describe a room.

With me it’s always raising an eyebrow and/or nodding. Which results in my characters looking like smug bobble heads in every conversation

me while writing: ah yes, this character should do this, it feels so natural with what they're saying

me while editing: why the FUCK does he lean on the doorway SEVENTEEN TIMES IN THIS CHAPTER

And there’s no inbetween

Going back to old writing is either just like:

1. “Who wrote this masterpiece?! It was ME?!”

2. “Who wrote this absolute shit? Oh fuck my life, that was me, wasn’t it?”

Perhaps if I had written my brilliant idea down when I first had it, instead of waiting to do it later, I wouldn’t be currently struggling to remember that idea