What I Write
It begins in my eyes. Each orb looks out to a shifting world. Close one eye, open another. Worlds upon worlds blink in and out of existence. Right and left, opening and closing, like mouths to drink in the color like sucking marrow. I am raucous and indecorous. I employ no niceties. Now the color pools behind the whites of my eyes, where it sits and waits and dreams in rainbow patterns that I can see only when I draw close to sleep. Thoughts like Pollack splatters the inside of my eyelids. When I wake, the colors get stuck to my eyelashes as they run down my face.
Every stream of color rushes forth in rivers. One trickle smells like apple blossoms and the musk of dying, old men. Another permeates the air with rising vapors of burnt skin and believing in Santa Claus, all peppermint pork fat. Red doesn’t smell like roses. Instead, the breeze catches rubies, sex and blood, and it smells like being in love.
I dart a cautious tongue to the pinks and purples and yellows that pool at the corner of my mouth like sunset. Now a feast, every taste bud erupting. Citrus and layered cakes, sweat and salt of the earth. The umami of existence erupts. I savor it. I suckle on it like a nursing babe. It tastes like being alive. I cannot keep it in. I open my mouth to scream.
Out pours words upon words, every color and scent and sight cascading. I wretch and collapse. For every sob and breath and sound transforms into more words, a mound of them grows beneath my shaking body. My hands slip in slick sibilance, sticking to turn of phrase like mud. I do not want to lose a single syllable.
I close my mouth. I close my eyes. I do not draw a single breath as I fumble blind and deaf in the refuse of my overwhelmed senses. There! In the muck, a single idea, dirty and sharp in my hands. I chance a sigh, a sound, but there’s nothing else to lose. My body centered around this single, delicate notion in my hands. There are bad ideas caked under my fingernails, but I ignore them.
The rivers of color recede back into my eyes, the scent of smoke and dreams is dispersed by another passing breeze. I don’t taste anything, as I am now very hungry. Now I can afford to wash my hands. I place the idea onto the counter top, careful not to cut myself on its edges. I store the debris of other thoughts rather than throw them away. I might sift through it all later. Perhaps there are diamonds inside.
I am clean now, alone with my dagger of a sentence. I grasp it by the end. Deep breath now. With all the force I have to bear, I pierce my ears with it, in one and out the other. I can feel blood pound in my brain as it shoots tendrils down into my spine, into my soul. The sentence speaks to me, a little whisper girl. It sounds like hope and broken heart sobs. It sounds like owls hooting and fireworks in hot cicada summer.
It’s in my blood now, growing like a virus with no ill intent. Soon I will be so full of it that I might explode. Take a pencil (or a pen), nub to fingertip and prick gently this time. Let blood flow onto paper, onto keys, onto tables and tea sets. Look. Open your eyes. There’s a story there.
|What I Write||
By day? I write articles for supporting players on multiple titles. But by night (late afternoon, dawn, really whenever I can fit it in) I embark on odd explorations of the human condition through spec fiction. We’re talking dueling robots and forbidden romances, the crossroads of metaphorical and literal inner demons and one young woman’s attempts to avoid the end of the world, and a portal fantasy where chosen ones are not what they seem and cunning wins above all.
I use speculative fiction to explore themes of mental illness, civil rights, queer perspectives and most importantly, the resiliency of self in the face of overwhelming adversity (but did I mention there were also cool robots?)
You can view some of my work from my current employer (https://support-legendsofruneterra.riotgames.com/hc/en-us/articles/360035541954-Regions-of-Runeterra).
My Write-a-thon Goals
Writing these days often evokes an element of fear within me. It’s one thing to curl up in a dirty pile of laundry (eww, adolescent me. What was wrong with you?) writing for fun when you were supposed to be doing homework. It’s quite another to swim upstream against the torrent of active discouragement. (Remember when I went for my Master’s and a professor told me that if I wanted to be a writer, I should instead look for a wealthy spouse? Cause I sure remember!) Academically, speculative fiction was discouraged, and personally I was discouraged, told by an enterprising gentleman that I couldn’t pursue writing because he did.
But there are stories I wish to tell. Worlds I long to build. And I’ve grown weary waiting for other’s permission to grant me the green light to my own aspirations.
So my goal for these 6 weeks?
I just want to write. I want to write my fucking heart out.
But, like, I would also like to finish the cool robot novella.
Clarion is doing some great stuff here, so if supporting me sounds like fun (it would be), proceeds going to them would be pretty darn cool.