#writing as therapy
Text
Some Things, Only God Can Forgive
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader
Setting: Alexandria
Warnings: Implied/mention of teen pregnancy, mentions of premature birth, implied/mentions of CSA, mentions of domestic violence
Summary: You’re hurting and have to share something about your past in order for Daryl to understand.
A/N: I’ve allowed parts of my life to wiggle their way into my writing before but this may be the most personal thing I’ve ever used my writing to vent about. I implore you to read the warnings and not venture further if any of those will trigger you. Also, the decision the reader made in her past may be controversial. Please, just… be gentle with me on this one. I needed the outlet badly.
Gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams
He found you sitting on the grass near the graves of the loved ones Alexandria had lost. You didn’t seem to be looking at the makeshift crosses, instead staring up at the sky, all orange and purple as the sun bid you goodnight. He approached you carefully, having seen you struggling throughout the day; tears you had tried to hide during your chores and the way you were so easily frustrated with yourself and would storm off to god knows where before returning like nothing had happened.
“Hey.” Daryl said quietly. His knees cracked as he lowered to sit next to you. He mimicked your pose, stretching tired legs out in front of him but chose not to move when you drew your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. The position made you look so small.
“Hi.” You answered, barely loud enough for him to hear.
“Y’okay?” The archer tried to keep his gaze on the darkening sky but found his eyes sliding over to watch you when you sighed.
“No.” You whispered. He started to ask what he could do, what you needed but you didn’t give him a chance. “I need to tell you something.”
That wasn’t reassuring. “Ya can tell me anythin’.” And you could, he hoped you knew that. His temper had calmed over the last year and a half. He found himself to be more thoughtful, his need to be quick to anger diminishing, though not completely absent.
“Before the world fell,” you started, but your lip began to quiver. He watched you struggle for a moment but you seemed to settle. “Before the world fell, I was a mom.”
Daryl tried not to let the surprise show. Out of all the things you could have told him, this was not on his bingo card for the year. You had both spoken of your lives before the turn. He knew you had never had it easy, but a kid? Not trusting his voice, he hummed his acknowledgment and nodded for you to continue. You still weren’t looking at him but you must have seen because you did.
“I was still a kid myself when he came along. I had no idea what I was doing.” You laughed but it was humorless and somehow made his heart ache. “Still, he was perfect. He was so small because he came early, but fuck, he was a fighter.” When the tears started to flow, the archer went against his better judgment and wrapped an arm loosely around your shoulders. You didn’t object. In fact, he wasn’t sure you even realized he had done it.
“He was my world. Kept me going between the beatings and the other shit life would throw at me even after I ditched his asshole father.” You drew in a deep breath and the small smile you had managed to find faded. “He grew up. He was 18 a couple of years before the first walker turned.”
You remained silent for a while. Daryl wasn’t sure if you wanted to share anything more but he remained where he was and waited. Finally, you looked at him, tears in your eyes and an expression that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
“That little girl didn’t deserve what he did to her, Daryl.” The bowman’s heart all but stopped. What were you saying? You turned away again, this time staring at the ground in front of your feet. “And he did it over and over for years. He wasn’t even a teenager when it started.”
Jesus.
His arm around you tightened. He couldn’t help it.
You sniffed and rubbed at your eyes and nose a little harder than necessary. “I found out just before his 19th birthday. I kicked him out of my house and turned him in, but the legal system did what it does best. Failed. I don’t even know what happened to him. We never spoke again.” Your face screwed up again, more tears cascading over your cheeks. “She was just a little girl.” Your face disappeared against your knees, hard sobs wracking your small frame.
Daryl did the only thing he could think of and pulled you toward him, finding you willing to bury your face against his chest and cry while he held you. What could he say that would make even the tiniest bit of that raw pain you were carrying any better? His lips pressed against the top of your head, his hand rubbing circles across your back. The sky was black and littered with stars when you finally calmed down enough to pull away from him.
“I’m sorry.” You offered, seeing the dark spot on his button-up shirt.
“Ya ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.” He made sure to be extra gentle when he thumbed away the remaining wetness below your eyes. You offered him a small smile when he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, much like Carol had done for him only a few months prior.
“I should have told you before now.”
“Don’t make a bit’a diff’rence.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a little half-smile when you met his eyes questioningly.
“It doesn’t?” Your voice broke on the last syllable. “You still love me?”
“Course I do. Ya did right by that girl even when it meant ya had to lose someone ya loved. Weren’t no easy thing to do.” Daryl allowed his knuckles to whisper down your jaw. “The hell ya think that’d make me—oomph!” He nearly toppled over when you launched yourself into his chest, your arms winding around his neck in a hold tight enough to restrict his ability to breathe properly.
“Thank you.” Your hold loosened but didn’t fall away.
“For what?” The archer asked, managing to climb to his feet with you still thoroughly attached. His hands came to rest softly on your waist.
“For being everything I thought I’d never see of love.”
Daryl felt a familiar sting in his own eyes, fighting back the urge with a hard sniff. The two of you stayed that way for a while longer when you suddenly pulled back and grabbed his hand, yanking him toward the cluster of houses. He stumbled comically before righting himself with a grumbled ‘the hell, woman’ but soon fell in step beside you, listening to you list off the food items the two of you had at home and ponder over things to make for a late dinner.
Of course, he still loved you. The archer was certain there was nothing you could tell him that would ever change that.
#murda writes#daryl dixon#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#the walking dead#daryl dixon fanfic#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon x you#daryl dixon x female reader#writing as a coping mechanism#writing as therapy#Spotify
217 notes
·
View notes
Text
I shared my new WIP idea with the hubs last night. At one point, as I was explaining Fiona and Baz’s relationship storyline I started crying. Even though I felt mortified, he made me feel better by saying, “You know, I’m not surprised that hurts. It’s obviously a stand-in for your own relationship with your mother.”
Which reminded me of this tumblr post I saw a week ago on my dash that said something like—your fic obsessions say less about your moral values, than about your particular emotional and psychological damage. (Very loosely paraphrased)
And isn’t that just the absolute truth of it.
#vamp angst=queer angst#write what you know#writing as therapy#baz pitch#simon snow#random thoughts when I should be grading#<-story of my life
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
There is a stand-out scene in Young Royals S2 that I actually actively never try to re-watch because the pain in it absolutely guts me. But I'm going to be brave and talk about it and let out all the feels because as much as it chokes me up, it is an absolute masterpiece in motion and I want to pay my respects to it (for effing me up this bad haha).
That scene is (unsurprisingly) when Wille cries as he watches himself dress up as a nobleman/prince for the ball.
(^genuinely can’t face putting the crying face in this post)
My goodness, that scene was so well done.
It's such brilliant storytelling that the (quietly brutal) quiet moment of Wille confronting himself in the mirror is surrounded on either side by images and sounds of all the other students having the time of their lives and really getting into the theme because dress up is supposed to be fun, right?
But the point of dressing up is that it is a fun escapism, right? You get to take on a different persona for a brief time, be whomever you want (there's so much freedom in that choice), and you get to be creative with it. It is a novelty. And then once that brief, fun period is over, you take the outfit off and just go back to 'normal' life.
But for Wille, he doesn't get to do that (not really, at least). He is a prince no matter what era clothing he dons and discards. Dressing up for the ball is not escapism for him, it's prison.
Wille's actual escapism happens every day of his life when he gets to wear a uniform like everyone else at school (or before that, going to 'normal' public schools). So if Wille's 'dress up' escapism is essentially his every day life, in this ball scene, he has to do the opposite of everyone and discard his costume of everyday clothing to put on his reality. And boy is the pain of that a kick in the guts when he is the one secretly crying in a room as he sees himself in the mirror while everyone else is bursting with joyful energy and make-believe.
That scene is like a visual bubble of grief; it really emphasises how alone he is. No one else has his status and all that comes with it; no one else can actually understand how it feels. That's the sorrowful fate of being a prince who doesn't want to be a prince (and who has lost his brother, the one person who did know what it felt like). Not even us viewers who love him and want the best for him can truly understand what he is feeling; the best we can do is empathise with his desolate loneliness. (Look at me talking like he is a real person. Shh!)
And then there is the whole applying makeup element to it all as well! The point of makeup in general is to conceal and transform, right? Conceal the natural face and transform it into a desired illusion? I know painting your face white was the fashion the students are trying to replicate at the ball but it sure hurts knowing that in Wille's case, there is also the metaphorical layer of him concealing his pain behind a white mask and transforming himself into the image everyone expects of him. But watching him do it, it is like he is lowering himself onto a sword; like it is destroying crucial parts of himself to do it.
And that is not fun and games for a night out at a ball. Not at all.
*Screams into the universe* It is such a brutallllll scene. (And yes, shout-out to Edvin for making it even more brutal with his description of it on twitter.)
Seriously though, you know when a tragedy occurs and part of you gets frozen in time? Like you can forever recall where you were and what you were thinking at the time? Well, this scene hit me like that (melodramatic maybe but true!). I remember seeing Wille looking into that mirror and my mind started screaming: "NO, NO, NO, STOP THIS SCENE, IT'S TOO MUCH! I know everyone is having the time of their lives but this isn't FUN for Wille! This is his reality! This isn't dress up that he can just discard after the party! Why are you making him dress up like that! Can't you see how cruel that is?!"
But hey, as much as it aches (or maybe because of how much it aches xD) I do love that they worked that wardrobe choice into the show though -- of Wille dressed in the image of an old-school prince while interacting with Simon, the uniform-wearing everyday man and his equally common/wait staff-esque suited boyfling. It is a tad in your face but it is marvellous at showing the reality of Wille's status and how alone he is in it. Sigh. I hate love this show.
#Young royals#Prince Wilhelm#writing as therapy#i checked myself and still wrecked myself#YR thoughts
367 notes
·
View notes
Text
I feel a little creepy bringing this up, but I also think it's important for people to realize it. Especially people who work out their issues through fandom a lot - cheaper than therapy, often more effective, been going on for millennia, go forth and do what you need to do.
Authors engage with their fiction at a personal level, too. Authors work on their own issues in fiction, and don't necessarily understand that they're doing it until afterward.
I have a writer friend who was in an abusive relationship. She got out of it about the same time I had a personal crisis that deeply involved my marriage. We were able to talk about these things to each other in a productive way. One of the things she said was: "When you reread what you wrote during X time later, you'll see that you were already telling yourself about this."
Most of this author's mid-career was spent writing thrillers, about being trapped, misled, and harmed; about making mistakes and taking responsibility; about choosing options that other people think are bad for you, because for you they are the safe options. Once you know some details of her experience, you can see exactly where the abusive relationship began and roughly how it played out, and how all of the stories she wrote during this time, and during the long period of her recovery, had him for a villain, until she was finally able to kill him off the way she needed to. Since then, she's written a joyful celebration of art and community; she's written a medievalist fantasy of self-discovery; she's done the work she had to do and gone on with her life at last. But it wasn't until she was safe that she could even admit to herself that she'd been writing about her abuse the whole time she was being abused.
Lots of people have engaged with her thrillers at the surface level; we will never know how many people engaged with them to do the same kind of work she was doing; or how many engaged with them to do different work on different issues; or what qualitative difference it makes to all those processes to know how her personal history shaped her work. This is the nature of the beast.
One of the ways people work on their issues with art is through creating for themselves - fanfiction, meta, formal litcrit, adaptation to other forms of media. This is normal. Usually it's healthy. But it doesn't have to be. This is not something that can be judged from outside. Sometimes people who really, really ought to have therapy cling to a fandom instead and this...is not always productive. And sometimes people get into parasocial relationships with creators in which their own real issues get all mixed up with their imaginary construct of the creator.
So that's enough vagueblogging. It's time to talk about Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Who were two very different people who were best friends forever. Who were both writers doing what writers do. Who early in their careers collaborated on a religious satire in which their work got so mixed up together that they couldn't always tell who had written what in its final form, and which featured major themes about friendship, including two best friends forever collaborating, not particularly effectually, to save the world. Who had fun identifying themselves with those two characters. Who liked the idea of a film adaptation, who actively wanted a film adaptation, but couldn't find an acceptable way to do it within the industry. Who verbally worked out the details of a sequel, but never could actually sit down to write it together, but who continued to influence each other's work in ways that anyone reading both of them could see easily if they cared to look.
(Coraline and The Wee Free Men were written and published almost at the same time. I read them one after the other. The two books are very different reads, in different genres, but at the high concept level, they are the same story. Tell me that's a coincidence and I'll shake my head and say "Bless your heart, child.")
And then one of those friends got a debilitating disease and died.
And the survivor became determined to bring about the film adaptation and to get the sequel made, explicitly for his friend's sake.
Even though his friend would never see it, and it meant new collaboration with new people.
Good Omens (TV) is the best film adaptation of a text work I have ever seen in a longish life of being disappointed by film adaptations. S1 made me happy; S2 made me happy and sad and ultimately (perhaps inevitably) dissatisfied; I hope that S3 will make me happy and satisfied. But there is a level at which that doesn't matter. Gaiman has repeatedly expressed gratification over the way people have embraced it; but he's not doing this for us. And he's not only doing it for Pratchett.
He's doing it because he needs to process what happened when his best friend got Alzheimer's and died. Maybe he doesn't know that's what he's doing - but he clearly is.
Pratchett's illness and death are all over the adaptation. We saw it even in S1, we talked about it, the difference between Crowley and the Bookshop Fire in the book and in the show, and people openly recognized that the difference was between a young artist working with his best friend and an older artist whose best friend had died. That was simple; we all got it. Some of us didn't like it, but we got it.
But it's all over S2, too, and here it's not simple, it's a big complicated mess. The villain of S1, who wasn't in the book at all, shows up sporting the most noticeable symptoms of the disease that killed the member of the creative team identified with the character the villain goes to for refuge. The original creative team's avatars are suddenly working at cross-purposes when they seem to be allying where before they were allying when they appeared to be working at cross purposes. Mirrors function in the plot again but they're confusing. Memory is a huge theme but it doesn't resolve. And the character who is the avatar of the creator who died goes off to a Heaven it knows is a horrible place and leaves the avatar of the creator who survived angry and miserable on Earth. All in the service of setting up that long-deferred sequel.
And the thousands of people who are in a parasocial relationship with the survivor and are livid, or feel betrayed, or otherwise take this personally - really need to accept and remember that.
#good omens season 2#good omens#meta#parasocial relationships#fandom as therapy#writing as therapy#the way things work#non sims
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
Oh I’m feeling down? Guess it’s time to write about characters going through deep gut wrenching angst but then getting comforted and understood by the people they love
#writing#writing as therapy#when you cant get a hug just write about one#what are feelings if not fuel for the writing monster
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
More poetry. Cause I’m working through shit and it’s good for me.
Kintsugi
Graceful degradation
The beautiful usefulness of all the broken parts of me
Shards as sharp as knives
Shattered and glittering
Broken like these hands
This heart, this body, this soul
The malunion of what was created and what I have become
Catastrophic functionality
The incorporeal and mangled teeth of magnanimity
Viscous like blood
Warm and sharp as iron
A tacky, tattered tapestry
It spills from the cavity that once held the heart of me
#poetsandwriters#poetry#spilled poetry#words words words#religious trauma#relationships#relationship trauma#witers on tumblr#writing as therapy#writing as a coping mechanism#come along with me as I work through 40 years of bullshit abuse and expectations#buckle up buttercups it’s time to start healing
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tsukuba
This is a short novella.
Warning: age gap, female character is 30, male character is 65, this story was originally written in German and I translated it for international readers. - Not proof-read.
This is for @pu-tse , I thought you would like this.
I wanted to leave his house and stood at the entrance. Shoes on my feet, I have already said my goodbyes. The terrible ikebana on the white table opposite seems to be mocking me. I used to like ikebana, but ever since I found out that a woman made it for him, I found it repulsive.
He was standing at the stairs, his gray hair shining in the afternoon sun light, wrinkles around his eyes.
"You're leaving now."
"Yes, I'm leaving now."
He took my hand, placed it on his cheek, on his thin lips, and tenderly kissed the inside. As I took a deep breath, a shiver coursed through my body.
"You're leaving now," he whispered into my hand, and his gray eyes looked directly into my soul.
"Yes, I'm leaving now," I trembled a bit as I said it.
He put his other arm around me, pulled me close to him, and placed my hand on his shoulder. My face was right in front of his. His gaze was still cold and piercing. I felt his lower body pressing against mine, my breasts pushing against his chest through our clothes.
He leaned towards my ear and whispered, sending shivers through my body and making me tense up immediately.
"You're leaving now?"
It was a question.
"Nnnh…" I couldn't answer. He looked at me again directly, and then he pressed his thin lips onto mine. I sighed into his mouth; he tasted as good as grape sugar and lavender. He held me tightly, but I also had my arms around his shoulders. It was no longer necessary to hold me, I would not leave anymore.
We paused the kiss briefly to catch our breath. I felt so warm and comfortable, yet simultaneously panic-stricken and aroused. Did I need to tell him that I wanted it too, or would he come to me and feel it himself?
"I…" , my voice broke.
"You wanted to leave," he let go of me, and I felt a terrible horror rising within me, an emptiness I had felt before, when he left me for the first time.
He didn't move an inch away from me, and his gaze was still cold. He judged me. He despised me.
I grabbed him between his legs and pulled him back towards me with my other hand. Now it was me who wouldn't let go. I kissed him, more breathless than before, and he immediately responded. I felt his breath quicken.
"I want to leave. I've wanted to leave for three years!" I shrieked hysterically, interrupting the kiss, and pushed him backward. He was so surprised that he almost fell, and for a moment, his gaze returned to normal, human, fearful. He reached behind him to find support and knocked over the ikebana; it crashed loudly to the floor. With even more force, I kissed him now, pressing him against the ikebana display, undoing the first buttons of his shirt and tearing it open.
He gasped in shock.
"I think of you, I dream of you, even though I destroyed all your photos, even though I'm not even searching for you – you still find me. You're there every time I lie alone in my bed, touching myself, you're there when I cry and moan. You're there when I'm drunk. Why are you still here? I left three years ago!"
I had pressed myself against him but had stopped kissing him. I realized that I had gone too far, so I let go and stepped back. He breathed a sigh of relief, straightened himself up, futilely fiddled with his shirt. Water droplets fell slowly from the ikebana installation, dripping onto the white tiles.
"Do you still love me?"
He asked it like a teacher asking a student a question.
"I don't know," I answered like that student.
"You want me."
"More than anyone else."
"You miss me."
"And I don't know why."
"Let's continue." But with a hint of hesitation. "I'm not that young anymore, you know."
He took my hand and asked me to follow him upstairs. Past the broken ikebana, he stepped carefully over it, and of course, I stepped right into it, my sock immediately getting wet, and I knew there was no more unpleasant feeling than this in the world. We slowly climbed the white staircase, without a handrail; they would have never approved that in Germany, I thought. A smooth, steep staircase leading straight up, with no chance of holding on, directly into his bedroom. Everything was darkened, satin sheets, a Western bed. That's how I remembered it, that's how it still looked. Not Japanese. Maybe he was too old to sleep on the floor.
He made no attempt to turn on the light as we both sat on his unyielding and hard bed, the perfect bed for the perfect fundamentalist, I thought.
"Why did you leave me?" he asked.
"But aren't we back together now?" I replied.
"I don't want to be together anymore." The words slipped out without thought, but they had to be true.
"You hurt me. You wounded me," he said.
"Because I called you a stubborn old fool? Was that enough to hurt you? I thought you were above such things," I retorted.
"I have the right to choose who I associate with and who I distance myself from. Your comment was hurtful. I needed space."
"I think you're afraid. I struck a nerve, and you were so wounded that you couldn't even admit it. You let me get too close, and then you regretted it. You saw in me the same inspiration that I sought in you. And then I had to hurt you. Your muse. Despite loving you so much, I couldn't bear it when you spread falsehoods."
He inhaled sharply at the mention of "falsehoods," but I didn't give him a chance to speak. He had blocked and ignored me for three years. Today, he had to listen.
"You spread something that can be hurtful and discriminatory to others. You shared something without thinking, something that excludes and disadvantages certain groups of people. You claim not to be someone who does such things, but you did it and refused to be educated. And it only got worse, even when I couldn't see it anymore. Messages of hate. Misinformation. Lies. Dangerous diets, false beliefs, and twisted worldviews."
He fell silent.
"I loved you. I wanted to protect you and the people around you from believing nonsense. That wasn't the H. I once knew. What you wrote back then was the opinion of an old, confused, and fearful man who desperately tried to make sense of the world to avoid accepting why those around him of the same age were dying."
I took a deep breath. My voice trembled because I felt that this was exactly what I had wanted to say for the past three years. This was my personal breaking point. I knew I wouldn't feel any better once it was finally said. It was despairing.
"You can't find truth with fear and uncertainty. You can only find it by being brave and embracing the unknown and the inexplainable."
In that moment, he began to cry. I had never seen him cry before. Always serious, always composed. I rarely saw him smile. Emotions seemed foreign to him, and now he seemed to collapse completely within himself, weeping bitterly. I thought of what the Icelandic author Halldor Laxness wrote in his novel "World Light": "No one who has ever heard an old man cry could ever forget it."
I remained still. Everything within me resisted the urge to comfort or appease him. He needed to cry. He needed to experience these emotions, and he had to do it all by himself. I had suffered for three years. He would only have to endure it for one evening.
#novella#short story#japan#love story#prose#original prose#creative writing#yujowriting#shortstories#writers on tumblr#writing as therapy#female writers#writerscommunity
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
I got a good start on my next chapter. Thank you, Steven. Marc, you're up next, but I'm going to go play with my pony while it's still warm and beautiful outside first.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Idk who needs to hear this but-
It's totally, absolutely, 100% okay to write about those folks who've done you wrong.
Yep, you heard me right ! Whether they're exes, frenemies, or just that one person who cut in line at the coffee shop and ruined your morning vibe: they're all fair game for your writing musings.
Yes, even if it seems petty.
Even if it feels like you're stooping to their level. Even if you're the self-proclaimed queen of pettiness.
We've all been there, right ? You pour your heart out to someone, only to have them stomp all over it like it's a crumpled-up piece of paper. Or maybe they flake out on plans, talk behind your back, or just generally act like a certified jerkwad. Well, guess what ? You're not alone, my friend.
If they didn't want you to write about them, they shouldn't have done the things that inspired you to do so in the first place. It's as simple as that. Call it poetic justice, call it getting even, call it whatever you want, but sometimes, putting pen to paper is the best revenge.
Now, I'm not saying you should spend your days plotting elaborate schemes or concocting evil-genius-level schemes of literary retribution. (Although, if that's your thing, I won't judge and honestly pop off your Majesty, that is genius and hilarious🤣🤣 .)
What I am saying is this: if writing about that ex who broke your heart, that friend who betrayed your trust, or that random stranger who cut you off in traffic helps you heal, helps you process, helps you find a little slice of peace in this crazy world, then by all means, my friend, WRITE ON !
Sure, some folks might raise an eyebrow or two. Some might furrow their brows in disapproval, while others might clutch their pearls and gasp in scandalized disbelief. But there are those who nod in silent solidarity, their hearts whispering, "Preach, Bestie !". There are the ones who offer virtual high-fives and fist bumps, cheering you on, because emotions are humans and we ALL went through some (excuse my french) f*cking shit and it's okay to be angry, annoyed, petty and wanting payback when it comes to people who wronged you.
You're not writing for those people disapproving a bit of poetic and writing justice. You're writing for you.
To turn what happened in something beautiful, maybe even funny (if you want to have a character that looks and sounds a bit too much like your backstabbing ex-bestie and have her getting eaten by a dragon, or that cheating ex getting a taste of his own medecine then PLEASE DO GO AHEAD FRIEND !!)
Hell, some of my most poetic writings ARE about people who wronged me and I absolutely ADORE them and the way they sound !!
How many artists throughout history have painted portraits of backstabbing friends, crooned about their exes, or penned ballads about their problematic families ? Um, pretty much all of them !
So here's the million-dollar question: why would it be okay for them to spill their guts on canvas, in song lyrics, or in the pages of a novel, but not for you to talk about the emotions and situations you've been through ?
Artists have been turning their pain into masterpieces since, like, forever !!!
Not everyone will get it, and that's okay !!!
Last thing I need you to know : wanting to get even on paper doesn't make you a problem babe – not even a tiny bit. It's more than okay, it's your story and you do whatever you wanna do with it. If you want to write that song, poem, story and make references to what happened to you, make characters similar to those who wronged you, then go the f for it. Write it out babe !!!
Daisy.
#book blog#bookblr#author#indie author#booklover#self publishing#fantasy books#writing#ao3 writer#ao3 fanfic#hot take#if you know you know#fic writing#creative writing#writer#on writing#writer stuff#writeblr#that's just my opinion#writing as therapy#writing as a coping mechanism
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
How triggery do we want to get today?
Basically my past trauma poured out in words. I feel I should start apologizing now. Don't comment if you're going to be mean or angry about it. And heed the tags, for the love of Jenkins.
#ofmd#our flag means death#izzy hands#ofmd izzy#ao3#ofmd edward teach#trigger fest#trigger warning#tw abuse#writing as therapy#kraken era#ofmd kraken#tw sex assault#wrote to exorcise some demons#heed the tags#heed the warnings#izzy in pain#ed hurts izzy really frickin' bad#i wrote it for me
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
I know I'm not alone in using writing to figure things out about myself. I just never expected a story about an exorcist witch would be how I worked out my views on and thoughts about religion.
#religion#writing as therapy#exorcist witch story#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#thank you Tobias Forge for lighting the spark that helped me get back writing
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
I once read a book with a plus sized main character. This was so very long ago that I don't remember the title, the author, the names of the characters or even what the cover looked like.
All I remember is that when the MC went over to her sister's house and was hugged by her nieces and nephews, one of them had commented, "Auntie ______, are you pregnant?"
And in my mind, I was like "ouch, that's gotta hurt." I was also extremely grateful that I hadn't faced that in my life.
Until last week.
It had stayed with me. That scene—etched into the crevises of my memories until it had become something I would never forget.
Last week my four-year-old cousin comes up to me and punches his tiny fist into my second biggest insecurity. "Why is your tummy so big? Are you pregnant?"
I've heard that kids can be brutally honest, but I'd never realized until just then just how brutal, or just how honest they could be.
I laugh it off, "No darling, no baby in here. Not yet." I wasn't even married for goodness sake (our culture). But he was four. He doesn't understand where babies come from.
It didn't hurt, really it didn't. His face was too innocent and naive for any maliciousness to settle between the smooth lines of his youth.
Later on, when we were seated amongst the other cousins, he throws another punch at my belly. "Aw, why'd you do that? It hurts, ma,"
It didn't. I merely just wanted him to stop.
"If I punch the baby will come out faster." Was his giggly reply.
I was slightly shocked. I laugh it out again, "There's no baby men!" I force myself to say.
Later on I realize that he had hurt me in some way. I was just used to taking hurtful things in stride that I had just brushed it off. Even more later on I realize that he too was brainwashed by society's need for people to be thin to be accepted amongst them.
Lose weight, lose weight, lose weight. You're unhealthy, you're going to become sick when you get older. You need to do it for your older self. They'll thank you. Maybe it's true, maybe it's not.
But I'm so tired of trying to fit into a dress that's two sizes too small. I'm tired of all the comments. I'm tired of my own brain that keeps throwing them back at me when I see my favourite chocolate, ice-cream or any other junk food I like. I don't even enjoy eating anything anymore.
"What's something you love to eat?"
Oh honey, I don't eat what I love. How do I say that without sounding pitiful? So I just smile and lie.
It comes easy now. Practice makes perfect.
I hate it. I really do. Sometimes, I just want to go into nature, cut off from everything, everyone. A bit like Ralph Waldo Emerson, and just live by the sea for a year—go for long walks by the beach, sleep under the stars, not worry about what people see when they look at me, not worry about whether men would find me attractive.
Just be free. To live as I want.
But to be free in my culture, one must be married. And to be married, one must be pretty. And to be pretty, one must be thin.
And my culture is all I've ever known.
***
#words#writers#rants#fatphobia#weightissues#writers on tumblr#pain#identity#isolation#social anxiety#self esteem#self healing#writing as therapy
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Since more and more stories keep popping up in my head I'm gonna try to actually do something with them, not just let them fizzle out and die a slow death in my notes app. 😊
---
Phoenix
CW: past child abuse, domestic abuse, graphic depictions of violence
Rating: Mature
Nora/Phoenix is my Sole Survivor that lived trough hell on earth long before the bombs dropped and just made the rest of the world catch up.
She's making a journey of self discovery, not least emotionally and closely related to that, sexually. Topics of trust, codependency and dealing with trauma, in both healthy and less healthy ways, are commonly occurring and the point of the whole story.
This is a deeply personal story to write for me and I see a lot of who I am and perhaps parts of who I want to be in not just the protagonist but also her companions. They're a mishmash of parts of who I was, who I am and who I may be one day.
Phoenix is growing from a kept, trampled on and severely abused girl into a woman, a formidable fighter and a dominant lover. She's making this journey alongside the only two persons she's ever felt safe with; Cait and Hancock.
Phoenix: After Dark
Rating: Explicit
Depictions of how Phoenix discovers her sexuality on her own terms.
I mean, considering that sexuality is a large part of her self discovery it only felt natural to write some actual smut for her. 😁
NSFW. Not even a little. Well, unless you work in a brothel I guess.
Jessie
Rating: Teens and up
Jessie is the Sole Survivor that is not Shaun's mother, but his babysitter, and was kind of a younger sister of sorts to Nate.
Pure toothrottingly sweet fluff, domestic bliss and romanticized, over-the-top-action scenes and funny, flirty banter is my hope for this one!
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've really enjoyed using Esme as my motherhood self-insert all this time (just in fun and also truly processing some things). Now I'm a few pages into writing 1918 and discovering that Elizabeth Masen is gonna give me a whole other outlet for free therapy 👍
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
you guys, I have had a cosmically, comically bad day today. writing therapy and gif storyboard below the cut 🤪
forgot two things i needed for work at home because the child had a dentist appointment and all of my energy was focused on her and her dad leaving for the appointment on time with the paperwork I stayed up late to fill out
bad traffic doubled my commute time
i am already chronically late
got to work with my breakfast, but my coworkers descended upon me and wanted to chit-chat (the worst of all morning afflictions) for so long that my breakfast was inedible by the time they released me
coworkers also make a (good-natured? on a better day?) joke about me being a perfectionist that kind of sounds like a compliment on paper but when they say it it sounds like a bad thing? am i where fun goes to die?
breakfast was going to be a turkey lunchable and i just realized it's still in my work bag, unopened 🤢
meeting that my manager always schedules during my normal lunch time ran extra long so it was extra long before I got actual food in me today
called partner while grabbing lunch and turns out the child needs a tooth pulled + orthodontics to compensate for the hole in her head
cue crippling parental guilt for the rest of my lunch break and afternoon
back to work where i am tying up the loose ends of a large solo project that i get to present to two department heads next week that is absurdly mind numbing (it's a flow chart and all.the.arrowheads.must.be.the.same)
dammit my coworkers were right about me
drive to pick up the child
child is upset that I forgot her after school snack and pretends to cry like a baby the entire way home
i am remarkably patient with this behavior given that i have already overdrawn from my account at the Bank of Fucks
partner has picked up tacos and burritos for dinner and i inhale everything and then excuse myself to peace the fuck out on my bed until it's storytime for the child
it's storytime and the child shows off her new skill: opening child proof medicine bottles 🙃
i have aged approximately five.7 years with this new knowledge
settled in bed with the laptop to do some writing after my part of the child's bedtime is over - promptly spill drink all over sheets and self
i missed the laptop thank fuck
dump baking soda onto the mattress to soak up all the cola before it gets gross
put all sheets in the wash because there are none clean at all anywhere in the house none
actually remember to switch the load on time
discover i. have. washed. a. USED. PULLUP. with. my. sheets. 💀
all. of. the. sheets.
it is 10pm and I am le tired
my washing machine is now filled with tiny balls of diaper gel fibers (parents, you know) and they are also clinging to every inch of my sheets 🌨️
grab partner and debate who gets to scoop all the diaper gel balls out of the washing machine and who gets to shake all of the laundry out into the child's bathtub to get rid of the detritus on the fabric
I win the bathtub because he has longer arms that can reach the bottom of the washing machine better not because he wins the debate
now washing all my sheets AGAIN at quarter to 11pm just to make sure everything is gone
type this out for therapy
oh god i forgot to clean out the bathtub
exec immediate exit();
gif storyboard of my day in no particular order as promised
#i promise i don't normally whinge like this#it's just been a hell of a week#don't tell me it's only tuesday#parenting#writing as therapy#ignore me
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tsukuba - Part 2
I am doing a course on creative nonfiction at the University right now and I thought it would be time to get the creative nonfiction I used to write out into the world. These are just bits and pieces of a short novella - nothing is proof-read and this was translated from German into English.
After the concert in Osaka, I received a message on my phone that said, "Meet me at the east exit." Knowing that I would have to wait for a while, I took my time leaving the hall and bought myself another beer at the exit just to keep myself occupied. The evening was colder than usual for this time of year. I wrapped myself in my scarf as the air buzzed with the heated excitement of the concertgoers slowly making their way home.
I stood at the east exit, clutching my beer. His little blue car was right by the door - he had driven here alone all the way. We never talked about his work. It was an unspoken agreement between us, just like we didn't talk about our age gap.
Tired from standing for so long, I wanted nothing more than to sit on the ground, but I knew it would only cause annoyance and people judging me. Some fans had come to the east exit, noticed his car, and now they were doing the same as me - standing around. I sent him a message.
"I'm here, but so are the others."
Just a few seconds later, I received a reply.
"Maybe you want to go to the hotel first, and we can meet there?"
"No problem. Did you make a reservation?"
He had told me just before he left that he would book a double room for the two of us, but he hadn't told me where or if we would split the costs.
"The Marriott. Reservation under your name," was the reply I received, and from the brevity of the message, I immediately sensed that those were all the details I would get for now.
Several taxis drove past on the street beside me, many of them occupied. The fans around me stood closer together now. Some more of them had noticed the car, and perhaps they had multiplied like bees—one had informed the other, and now they were all slowly coming here, hoping to see him.
I stepped to the side of the road, looking hopefully in the direction from which the cars were coming, determined to extend my arm as soon as a taxi came into sight. For a while, nothing happened, and then suddenly I heard a loud sigh and screaming. The gate to the east exit had opened and H. was standing by his car. I turned around briefly, he didn't see me, didn't want to look over the fans to see me, and I showed no interest either. At least he was early enough for us to be able to buy something to eat.
Just as he got into his car and the bodyguards kept the screaming crowd at bay, a taxi stopped right in front of me.
"Osaka Marriott Miyako Hotel, please," I said as I got in. Suddenly excitement burned within me. Who would be faster?
I arrived after ten minutes. I entered the lobby and didn't see him at the entrance or the reception. So I had won the little race—maybe only because my taxi driver was a true Osaka resident who knew the city like the back of his hand and bombarded me with all sorts of information in broken English during the ride. He probably thought I was a tourist and that it was my first time here. This was the sixth or seventh time I had visited Osaka, and when I asked for a receipt in Japanese as I got out, he was very disappointed and embarrassed that he had been trying to speak English with me the whole time. I thanked him anyway for the city tour and his efforts—forced hospitality was always better than hostility.
I didn't like the lights in the hotel. There were ornate chandeliers with LED lights—it was supposed to be chic and elegant, but the bright light contradicted that. Leather chairs were arranged around glass tables—I knew why H. had chosen this hotel—it perfectly matched his taste. Sterile cleanliness and elegance. It felt like being in a museum— you may look, but don't touch anything.
At least the bar looked friendly, and I longed for a Japanese shochu on the rocks—as soon as I checked in, I would treat myself to one or maybe two.
I approached the friendly receptionist, smiled, and said that the reservation was under my name. She checked and nodded kindly, then asked, "Honeymoon Suite?"
I sighed at his audacity.
"Yes, I suppose so."
"It has already been paid for by card. Here's your key, room 545. Will your husband be checking in later?"
"I hope so."
She laughed, but I was serious.
#novella#short story#japan#love story#prose#original prose#creative writing#yujowriting#shortstories#writers on tumblr#writing as therapy#female writers#writerscommunity#creative nonfiction
3 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
last-night-on-earth-13
the girl I haven't met.
cumulusfloccus-blog
altocumulus floccus
lsleofthelost
Laila
feathergil
the bear