You can find me on Instagram at wordsmith217
I remember writing stories in grade school. We had to write one each week and I always waited until the night before it was due to start working on it. I would erase through sheets of paper, flicking bits of the cheap pink eraser all over the place and leaving smudges of dark lead wherever the words didn’t flow seamlessly. I was critical of every single word. I hated my voice and had many verbal altercations with myself over the prompts that were given to us. They were filled with whimsy and so many beautiful possibilities awaited us, the young writers of tomorrow, yet they paralyzed me because I couldn’t push past the perfectionist soul inside me screaming, “No! Don’t write that. This is horrible.”
I remember waiting each week for the teacher to pick her favorite to share with the class. I remember the excitement that would build after lunch that was a mixture of actual anticipation and a little cafeteria pizza induced indigestion. The class would all sit in what I like to imagine -a collective group of overjoyed student-writers. Likely, no one else really cared and they were just relieved they didn’t have to fish pencils from their brightly colored pencil boxes to take a timed multiplication drill.
Our teacher shared with us our stories and she would also share with us trips to Narnia through wardrobes, tales of fourth grade nothings, witches, and a chocolate factory. Her love for reading and writing became my passion. I dreamt of being a writer from childhood and teachers like her convinced me that it was a worthy dream, despite the worlds view on writers and artists. They are, after all, one in the same.
I became a teacher instead. I wanted to take the same approach as many of my former teachers. I wanted to encourage my students to love writing and storytelling. I wanted them to be as passionate about reading as I was. I tried and I failed. I walked away after a few short years in the profession. It drained me emotionally, financially, and somehow even spiritually. It was exhausting and rarely rewarding experience where I learned I dislike children and many adults. What to do now?
I worked in customer service and finally landed in my current job. Administrative Assistant for an insurance company. Many days I still have an ache for writing and not just tho blog or an Instagram that boasts of my tens of readers and occasional “likes” that I’m sure are from robots and no actual humans. I’m left wanting more. Always. I crave feedback for the random ideas that pop into my head. I love writing with other people even if the words never reach anyone’s eyes. I have been fortunate to have a handful of beta readers for lack of better terminology. They might not have been qualified to sing my praises as a writer, but it sure as hell was nice to feel the appreciation in real time and I would bask in it. Truthfully, everyone thinks themselves writers now. Everyone’s opinions are plastered on the internet and they are ripped apart by the public daily.
So where does that leave me? I have almost a nonexistent fan base and/or readership. I’ve somehow pushed everyone that used to care away.
At what point do you stop? I write to make connections with people, but if there are no people to write for where does that leave you?
His strength is gone and only his bones remain. They buried him in the spring.
Without flowers, there is no spring.
Without him, there’s only the rain.
He gave me this name when he shared a song.
I’m lost without him.
It all feels wrong and empty.
He was amused by my stories and he’d read them all.
He begged me for help and I let him fall.
Delilah really was Samson’s undoing. She cut his hair and he became nothing.
I could have saved him, I think.
I didn’t have to walk away and let him suffer alone.
Samson didn’t deserve to die. Delilah’s hands are covered in his blood, screaming to God….”why?”
Did you let him in when he came to the gate? Did you push him away like I did? Did you save from the hell he had been living in for years? Did you rescue him and reunite him with his father?
He was broken and alone. He waited and no help came. He wanted to love, but wasn’t given the choice.
Did you cry for his mother? Did you save his soul?
Delilah is broken. She is alone. She needs to believe in something more than what she’s been given.
So, I’ve either been bitten by the world’s tiniest vampire or a giant spider. I’m still ruling out a drunk mosquito with really bad aim although my left breast would disagree. I better get a superpower out of this.
Drawing a blank.
When was the last time you walked away from a discussion, only to think of The Perfect Comeback hours later? Recreate the scene for us, and use your winning line.
Recreate the scene for us, and use your winning line.
I had this conversation with my daughter the other day. I was remembering my days in middle school. It was pretty bad. I was picked on constantly and I really didn’t want to live. I could never figure out how to ignore the other kids. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear them calling me Rat. I was Hilda, the albino Rat King on steroids.
They threw cheese at me during lunch. One time, they made me a paper crown because you know, King of the Rats and all. I’m still not sure why they thought Rat King instead of Rat Queen? Maybe they thought I wasn’t a girl. Who knows. Teenagers are stupid.
I thought the other day that if I could have embraced the name then I might have been able to turn it around. I could have worn a Minnie Mouse headband every day. I could have found a cheese backpack or purse. I could have taken what they used against me and then they would have lost some of their power over me.
So maybe it took me 20 something years to figure it out. I would love to see if it could have worked.
I remember the day it all ended.
I left Middle School and convinced my parents to send me to a different High School. I wouldn’t have to see them anymore. I went to the mall over the summer and saw one of them working at Dantes Pizza. I was imagining the horrific experience of being offered Cheese Pizza because…Rat King was here.
I walked up to the counter. He looked right at me.
“What can I get you, A?”
He said my name. He knew my actual name. He didn’t call me Rat. It was over. They grew up. Finally.
That this is not real.
You know me
You’re married, for fucks sake.
You have everything to lose. I don’t. I have lost everything already.
Sorry for the apprehension.
But do you feel me?
I wish she was mine. So at least you would have some real tie against me.
But you don’t.
You say I love you. But marry another?
A house together?
What did I expect?
True love? Some Princess Bride shit?
I want the movies but end with reality.
I’m here, you’re there. And nothing is going to change it.
I love you, but you chose.
I never did.
I mean why? After all these years? You find me in Rhode Island?
Why did you call?
You are my light and my darkness.
So end this with the silent treatment cause you are with your husband and I am alone.
Just the way YOU left me.
Not written by me- just posted here by me.
Everything was punctuated by this emotion that felt like anger, but it was so much stronger and deadlier if left unchecked.
She stood there in the tiny kitchen of her apartment wearing only a shirt while she enthusiastically stirred the batter for a pancake breakfast that would now go uneaten. Blissfully unaware of the battle that she was about to encounter she welcomed his hand touching her shoulder.
He’d seen it from across the room and only moved closer to verify his suspicion. His thoughts were racing. Did he kiss her neck last night? No. The verdict was in. He did not do this. With each thought, each breath, each violently increased heartbeat- the truth was finally clear. Her distance, her aloofness.
“There is a mark on your neck.”
“What?! I told you to be careful because the slightest touch causes me to bruise.”
The room started to spin. There was nowhere to run and hide. Her hair was too short to pull over the exposed skin.
Questioning, “did that work?”
Words were thrown like knives, cutting deep and leaving permanent scars that would be the battle scars of this war.
Searching for the reasons and finding none.
Only an addiction.
He is her drug.
She is his.
The fight subsides and the pain is pushed down deep, into the darkest part of their souls and they push forward in hopes of finding happiness.
She looks into his eyes and can still see the rage, the pain, the jealousy. She’s killing him and yet, she knows no other way.
He looks at her and tries to find hope in this dismal abyss of hurt and is only comforted by her touch. He’s convinced himself for the moment that she’ll change.
She regrets everything and nothing and like everything in else in her life it creates chaos. No one has been able to make her see that her pain will be her own undoing. Her pain is beauty. She revels in it because it feels artful to surround herself with excessive amounts of passion and raw unadulterated emotion.
His anger feeds her soul;he clings to her for life and for his future. They are built upon madness and joined together by their sins. A strong, but disconcerting union is the foundation in which their house stands. No one understands it, but it is the simplest form of love. They are not as complex as they thought. They simply desire more-more than they currently have and more than they ever had. They just need each other so they can feel alive because when they are apart the space feels like a thousand miles and a universe away.
I thought all day that if I could just sit down somewhere with a computer I could get everything out of my head and maybe even feel a little better. I finally get my hands on a computer and some not so quiet space, but nothing is coming out. The words have been with me for days. I don’t know why I’m trying to put anything into words. I don’t finish any of it. I just start these chapters to stories that live inside my head, but they sort of die there in between. Maybe they are better off staying inside my head because no one really wants to hear them. Please don’t take this as me fishing for a compliment. I’m not. All I’ve ever wanted was to be able to write stories that people would want to read. I wanted to create characters that people could fall in love with and develop a genuine interest in their lives. I don’t want money or fame. I just want a story that takes on a life of itself. A story that people want to hear what happens next. I want my words to live long past my pathetic life. I want to leave something of myself to be remembered. Sadly, all that will be remembered is the girl who wrote a hundred different beginnings and never found the ending to any of her thoughts.
Endings are my downfall. I don’t have any. My entire life has been beginnings and middles. When something should end, I hold onto it as if the ending of anything in my life will also be the ending of me. I don’t want my existence to end. I don’t want the memories of me to fade in anyone’s mind. I’m scared that I will become insignificant to those who know me. I fight to stay…always.
I know I should learn to let go. I should walk away from the things that will only cause me pain. I should welcome the silence of some people in my life and start living my life and accepting the choices I’ve made. It’s so hard to let go sometimes. The pain that should have been experienced in the beginning demands to be felt. The tears and the agony should have long ago left, but they linger only because I’m too scared to move forward, to let go.
The past should remain in the past and that which is dead should stay dead.
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