Creative Writing

There were a lot of ways to address it.

The misspelled "know" on the front page of my book.

I started the engine, waiting for the garage door to fully open.

My teacher got her copy.

Mine was getting in later this week.

Now, I had options:

Call everyone I knew who had purchased it, apologize, and buy new copies.

Ask them to never speak of it.

It. Was. So. Embarassing.

I got to Trevor's house thinking.... You know what?

You know what that typo means?

Typing fast and passionately... you make mistakes.

I think it is beautiful honestly. These books will forever be stamped with original evidence of love. It is so fitting for this to be the first page of the preface.

She Loves Control. she... loses it. This is me... releasing it. Someone may still hate it.

Okay, but read the whole book. Did that word really matter? Isn't it beautiful? To learn to lose control?

In a place where we find meaning

It's hard sometimes to take a step back, and remember that, normally it's not purposeful.

That, there are things through tradition or culture that can negatively affect us. But it's not out of malice.

No one is monitoring every single action, and wondering and calculating how it is affecting everyone. It wasn't all prepared in a secret backroom.

There was no secret meeting that some outside entity and a group of individuals decided how to cause trauma and emotional damage through small micro-actions.

It's hard to change that cynical mind, and remember that, everyone is living the same life as I.

Humanity... I thank you

He told me to take a step back to remember what truly connects us that our humanity is what we make ourselves to be.

Sharper.

Cleaner.

Prepare.

Take a breath.

Anchor your fingers, hold up your elbow.

Wide stance, ground your feet in the soil beneath you.

The ground, your past. Your beliefs and experience.

Stand where you are, and shoot. Farther than where you are- but a target already made.

Drive it to the center. Bring it to the point. Take all the coordination, into one release.

And hope that it goes in- direct, sharp, and clean.

Dead Center.

Drive your point.

Make it clear.

Because they aren't watching you. They are watching the target. The product of your stance. Drive your arrow into the target,

because what you said... wasn't. clear. enough.

I told you I was going to make errors.

I did.

We chose to do it anyway.

But, now you are scared.

because you doubt me.

After my first painting like this, I wanted to try it again. [If you haven't seen the original, see "about us"]

The first painting was so raw. It was so beautiful. It was so... adventurous?

So, I started the process another time. There are certain quotes that I didn't feel confident wearing when I was younger, but I still wish I could have worn them. I decided to make something that you know what it means, but no one else really does. I didn't like it by itself though, so I added the word "Worthy", but it just.. wasn't quite right. So, here it is. I tried.

Maybe I will like it more later, but for now, here it is... worthy.

I realized it, when I held my stomach, and felt the pulling sensation-

- that it was a common feeling that I felt it often and it was... self-induced -

When I was little, I used to remember, that every second longer of the pain, maybe it would be productive. that each ache, as I laid in a fetal position, would remove bits and pieces of me. my soft belly. my hanging muscle on my arm, my inner thigh. It was almost like, every clench, a message. Begging my body, to take the excess food from my storage. - No. You are not hungry. You have plenty of food on you. Take away that food, then you can eat.

- When I was little, I used to remember, that every second longer of the pain, maybe it would be productive.that each ache, as I laid in a fetal position, would remove bits and pieces of me. my soft belly. my hanging muscle on my arm, my inner thigh. It was almost like, every clench, a message. Begging my body, to take the excess food from my storage.

- No. You are not hungry. You have plenty of food on you. Take away that, then you can eat.

- It is fucked up. To think. That as a little girl. I didn't consciously know it. But. I thought it.

I had these obsessive, habitual, thoughts and habits, that, the messages. from my stomach- telling me to eat. could be told to shut up. and take from me. I told it. To take. Pieces away from me. I begged it. - The pulling sensation began, in my stomach, as it pulled behind me attaching to my spine, making my posture perfect, my waist... thin. If only, the pulling sensation continued on, to my arms, my chin, my arms, my thighs.

I sit here. I sit here and scroll within my old manuscript.

I'm almost paralyzed. Because it's absolutely terrifying.

the grammatical errors.

the formatting.

A constant question of... "Oh shit." Was I supposed to fix something on this page.

I sit here.

and forget at times that I even published a book.

I forget that poem. Actually I forget about a lot of the poems.

But when I remember them. I first think of... not the poetic beauty of them... but all the chances for errors. That maybe, maybe, there is a page in there... that somehow.... just somehow I didn't see.

And you will find it. And it will ruin me. But then I remember.

I never said it was perfect. I said it was real. I repeat this to myself now. Because... I think people will say terrible or horrible things to me. While they have physical evidence of my soul and emotions in their hands. I never said it was perfect.

I said... it was real.

Hey let’s play hide and seek.

I got a secret I should keep.

But as I sit here in my corner, You will wonder if you’re getting warmer.

Im getting colder, you shiver your shoulder.

Hey let’s play hide and seek. You said that I was meek.

Now, who’s the one searching for the one whose been hurting? Let’s play hide and seek. Hey. You find me yet? Because you can search and and you can find. But you won't find what was on my mind.

As we play hide and seek- I got a secret I will keep.

It’s. So. Hard.

Okay right?

Like. Sometimes my writings aren’t poems right?

But I lean on this concept in my head that….

"I don’t care."

"It’s valid."

"Don’t let labels or categories or expectations stop you from creating."

"This is the whole reason you did this, Cecilia."

"It’s because you wanted to write. They might not all be “home runs” But don’t let that discourage you." "

They are all beautiful and all have a purpose. So, You see poems of individuals that are pouring their heart out."

But… you see…

You don’t know their whole story.

That may have been…. the poem.

They may have edited and worked on it for a while.

They may have been prompted. And guess what?

It. Is. All. Valid.

Their accomplishments don’t invalidate your own.