Sipping on coffee, I contemplate the bunch of contradictions screaming at each other on the paper in front of me. Some tell my stories in more detail than I’d like, while others tell me the stories I’d like to hear instead. Good. It means I’ve written it all down, and now nothing makes sense. I laugh quietly at the mess.
But the work isn’t finished yet. Now I need to group and edit and revise each paragraph until no one can tell what’s real and what’s not. That’s how you write a book. You hide yourself behind your own words, between your own lines, until they catch a glimpse of you, but can never be quite sure. When it’s relatable precisely because of its vagueness, you can rest. Your world is safe from harm, and people will want to read it.
Pulling my cheeks up for a smile, I still can’t stop my heart from bleeding. No, don’t worry about it. It’s been like this for a while, and it’s still working just fine. When it closes off, the stories stop too—so I need to hurry, for I don’t have much time. I only have until my heart heals, and sooner or later, every heart does.
You see, I write with my chest open. That’s right. I dip my pen inside and write about my dearest continents, my heart’s many little homes that make up my world. I don’t use my imagination enough, like a writer should. I write everybody love letters that I twist into stories, and dream of how one day I will become a book in their hands. Will they understand me then? I can already see the first page.
‘As you read this, you’re stepping inside. Welcome. Don’t tiptoe, don’t whisper, don’t close the door behind you. Inside my chest you can be free and loud and reckless. This is how I am, too.’
Of course, I won’t add that the stories are as much about me as they are about them. That I have poured everything I held dear about them into writing so that I could let go. That I loved them with all the fire in my soul, until some turned to ash and were blown away, and some fuelled these characters to keep writing themselves through me.
My biggest inspiration has always been people at their most lovable, when I want to wrap my fingers around theirs and read with my feet entangled to theirs and think of never letting go. And then I let go of them on paper, and my heart bleeds a little as I peel them off, one by one. ‘There you go,’ I say to them when they are nothing else but memories. I say it with love still, but I know the love is peeling off as I speak.
My coffee is cold, and I look around the room. I want to explain myself to everyone. I feel like I owe the world my energy. But I hold back from telling the truth in its purest form. I don’t trust the world to handle me with the care I need. Instead, I mix it with fantasy flakes and serve it hot to anyone who wants to taste it—be they strangers or characters who have run off the paper, mixed with reality sprinkles.
Would you like some?
Anca Dunavete 
After reading this I looked up to make sure that I was following you! Oh my gosh! You’re an incredible writer! Of course I am following you!
You see, I write with my chest open. I dip my pen in my soul
Seriously, is that ^ BRILLIANCE or what? I wish I’d wrote that!!!!!
The pics are amazing. The writing place in my head for years! Wall to floor book shelves and a cozy writing studio (in my head mine is up in an attic overlooking a forest with a little brook running through it! I will have it before I die!! ;)
I just had to stop and tell you to NEVER stop dipping into your soul! You are going to happen and EVERYONE is going to read your stories!
xoxo
di
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You are so kind :) and we share the same dream about the cosy writing studio, haha!
Thank you for your words of encouragement. It means so, so much!
XO
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This is a fantastic piece, I truly enjoyed reading it. It reminds me in all honesty of my past summer and all the little memories that came and went. Beautifully written, thank you for sharing
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Thank you for reading and taking the time to let me know what you think. Glad to hear it reminds you of good times :)
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“Contradictions” comes to mind as a word, where the narrator senses the immaturity above. It always interests me how language can direct one to a cure, except of course language is only a tool to describe what we are feeling. No matter how correct our grammar, we cannot escape ourselves as the origin of thoughts.
There also comes a time when we have been doing something like writing for a long time and we’ve been complacent and cool, self-involved and we wake up to our self-indulgence. The clock ticks. We look up at the ceiling, where the time is cast as a blue light, and while it is cool outside, the sun is shining.
The man for whom I went to a memorial yesterday told his son, these last days will be like a ball loosing air. It will slowly decrease its ascent, and then loose its bouce all together.
We gravitate to those we can share our stories and eventually we understand ourselves. The clock ticks, or shall I say another clock ticks in some other room, yours perhaps, and while I know where you are t, it is also about desire
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“It’s soul-crushing, like the waves, like the flames; like me.”
What beautiful writing that drew me in immediately. Sometimes we just need to refresh to regain that fire again……I don’t think we ever truly lose it. It comes in waves, but it always comes back strong again. Will be looking forward to your next piece.
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Indeed, Desra, I feel the same.
Thank you for your kind words! X
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I remember you saying recently that you wanted to be a publisher. Why on earth would you want to do that when you can write like above?
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Because I don’t always know what to do with my writings, and working in publishing I would at least be around books, and perhaps help others – luckier than me.
Thank you though, your thought made me smile today!
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