what happens to the 12 year old who got an amazing grade in their 5th grade writing class?

nothing.

they stow away their hardbound homework in a plastic cabinet and beg their mom to throw it away when it resurfaces, 11 years into the future. their mom refuses and says that she’ll never throw it away because this was the start of everything for her darling writer.

writer. what a silly thing to call me. i have hundreds of unfinished projects sitting in my google drive and another hundred lost to the recycle bin and old laptops forever, and not one finished product to show.

the only story i finished was a silly short fantasy story from 5th grade. and even then i got words mixed up. your and you’re, its and it’s, their and they’re.

i don’t know what happened between 12 and 21, but at one point, i stopped writing my stories.

maybe it was the trauma of writing about my a-ma dying, only for my grandma to die the next day.

maybe it was the all consuming nausea of becoming a “true adult.”

maybe it wasn’t any of that—maybe it was just a fire that burned brightly only to putter out pathetically.

my godfather won a national award for writing and so my dad says it’s in me to become great; to reach for the stars.

my godfather asked me what i wanted to do and when i said write for a living, he smiled and gave me a practical overview on life: we must work to be able to find steady ground to do what we love—to write. i keep that advice in my pocket.

i don’t know what happened to the 20 year old who could churn one idea after the other, who could write one short story after the other.

perhaps higher education has consumed me—perhaps some real life experiences have humbled me.

or perhaps it all began when i learned what fear is; when i learned how failure tastes like (it is not sand in my mouth, it is not cardboard, either; it is fire and acid, and rotten meat in my mouth all together).

when i look at my work, it doesn’t feel like i’ve written any of it. or to be more exact; it doesn’t feel like i like any of my writing at all. it makes me feel guilty, because i know 19 year old me stayed up to write that chapter—that 21 year old me dug through painful memories to remember a certain feeling to properly convey a character's distraught.

when i look at my writing, it doesn’t feel memorable. it’s like looking at the distorted fake mirror that come in a child’s makeup set. there’s a semblance of something, but that thing isn’t quite there.

my writing is something, but it’s neither great nor bad. it’s not worth reading.

and so i stopped writing anything worthwhile. i haven’t opened the files of stories i was genuinely excited to write, or even thought of coining another original story. it’s come to the point that, even in daydreams, i’m not a successful, award winning, best selling writer.

i am just a regular person with a dog who reads and maybe—owns a cafe.

then i’ll remember something mr. tom from one piece said: you’re the one who gave them life! you, at least have to love them. the one who created them must never deny them!¹ and then i feel sick to my stomach.

i so deeply want to deny my work from 5th grade; the shitty one direction fanfics i wrote, the cringey original stories i published on wattpad—i want to deny their existence; that they were ever things i wrote.

but at the same time, i don’t think i can deny them. not when 12 year old me was proud they got a good grade on a piece they thoroughly enjoyed writing—not when, like what my mom said; it’s where it all started.

i’ve picked up the old pen again. donned my old frog with a pen title (albeit much less noticeable than before) once more. thought about becoming a writer again.

i still don’t know if i love my writing; if the rhythm and style i slowly built over the years has done anything to make me feel like what i write is worth reading. but i’ll write as though my life depends on it again.

i’ll write as though i’ll die if i put down the pen again.

if i do that, maybe, just maybe, i’ll start to feel like i’m back in my own skin and not this strange being who’s been parading around wearing my face.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

hello all. i don't know if this fully makes sense, or if this is any good at all; i am at the tail end of my grueling surprisingly busy graveyard shift and wrote this on a whim, half inspired by gabby and moi's latest posts, half wanting to get this sick feeling off my chest after having kept it to myself for three years.

recently, i learned that enna said that they are most afraid of my writing. something about how i have nothing to hide when i write. to which my response was: writing is the only way i can ever articulate myself wholly and without shame. it helps even more that no one here (aside from the echoserang froglets) knows who i really am, so in that way, a certain veil of anonymity is kept.

but then again, what do i have to hide? i need to learn how to live shamelessly, after living so many years ashamed as a teen.

although, i have to admit, i owe it all to banana yoshimoto, whose writing shaped my own (i devour her work like a starved beast).

i think it's also worth mentioning that misu sent me a letter that said "I love the vivid way you describe things, whether they're sparkling memories or the murky waters of junior high" and misu, i hope you know that this line made me cry (/pos, btw). after years of doubting my own writing, it was nice to hear that someone saw it that way, as i try very hard to paint pictures with what little words i can grasp at.

anyways, as always, a song for you. if there are any edits to be done on this blog, i will do it later. for now, it's 10am and i need to sleep.

goodnight internet (⸝⸝ᴗ﹏ᴗ⸝⸝) ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

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1. this quote from mr. tom is from one piece's chapter 356 titled "mr. tom".↩