~A short [unedited and unfinished] manifesto detailing my writing process, written one cold Winter Solstice afternoon with friends.
Why do they want me to write a manifesto?
do they not know I am incapable of producing anything with merit? I used to write creatively all the time- to escape, to express. perhaps for the same reasons I would draw (to some degree anyhow). I think I just wanted to be like my dad. and impress. but the truth is that I don’t have the language in my arsenal to articulate how I feel. What I mean to say is… I’m blank.
There is nothing inside me.
To be frank, I’m scared. of not being good enough. original. of not having the words. im terrified of getting it wrong. You know what motivates me to write? the deadline. but even that is untrue. I wait until the very last moment to self-sabotage. if its bad, then I know why. if I fail, I know it’s because 100% of my efforts were not there.
Sometimes I think I feel the world too deeply.
and at times like this where I wish I could feel anything at all, there is nothing. n u m b. I stare at the mirror and it is e m p t y. I can’t tickle my soul. I can’t get inside my psyche. Am I protecting myself? Why can’t I be vulnerable, and with the company of others? I look at their work and I am not jealous. I don’t NOT write because I’m worried I can’t write as good as them. That is just fact. And one which I am simply okay with. Their beauty inspires me. Their writing moves me. And I would much rather be affected by somebody else’s words than my own. Perhaps there is too much self-deprecation. I know I’m not awful… I must have some kind of talent? Perhaps. I used to think hand-writing was easier. Could help chaotically get the ideas out. Scribbling-scrawls-scritch-scratch-getting anything-and-everything out-on-the-page attack that stupid [insert word] white space. write and then re-write. Start a new page; a new document. Because it is too chaotic. Because I cannot think, cannot [insert word here, Maddie] focus. The page cannot contain my thoughts in its entirety. I cannot make sense of the polished and unpolished occupying the same space.
I watch the wooden panels on the wall, the Pinterest-cosy-Instagram experience unfolding around me. The House of Wind. But is it my reality? I am sad and numb and angry and grateful and I feel gross and inadequate and alive and pins pricking needles. Path of pins or path of needles? I need to explore that liminal space- I need to write that ‘play’ into existence. That fantastical, magical, marvelous space. Healing that inner child who wanted to escape, escape, and escape. I wish my mind was made of honey-suckle or razor thorns, but it is muddy water. Have a taste and choke back salt and bile or gurgled gargled sea-water ocean expelling from the nose.
Drowning is never peaceful.
I want to live my life like a Studio Ghibli movie. I want to write like how When Marnie Was There feels. Familiar. Nostalgic. Other. But instead it’s like Dork Diaries or Mortified. Simple. Boring. Clichéd. It’s not whimsical like I’ll Give You The Sun, or entrancing like ACOTAR. It’s probably like Twisted Love. Just actual trash. Idk. Again, the self-deprecation. I want to write about everything but I just can’t. There is a literal block. I’m just stuck and stuck and stuck and bound and claustrophobic.
There is much anguish in my soul.
I remember early in high school what I used to write. I would be so descriptive and metaphorical. Allegorical and symbolic. Like they aren’t the same thing anyway… and then one day I just stopped. All the words fell out of my head. I’m not sure if this blank, simplistic voice is mine. I don’t think I’ve found my voice yet. My style. I don’t think I’ll ever have one, Barthes says I don’t, so it must be true. One day I decided that I didn’t need all the superfluous words to express myself anymore, I just wanted to get to the point. But now I don’t know how to go back. I have never felt so at home with writing and so lost within myself, I thought I had done some major soul searching already. I’m not ready to do it again. I don’t want to dip my toes in or jump [head- fingers-tips] first. I want to stare at the wall and pretend I’ve done all these things. I want to look at old photos and be transported back— I
I want to be alive in everything. Why can’t I write fast enough? It hurts. I can’t describe how much it physically aches. I can’t type fast enough either. It’s like a slow-motion fever dream. A flashback. I am suspended outside my body. Third-person. Focalisation. I bite my cheek. My hand cramps from the grip of my pen. Yet still it is not quick enough. It never will be. So I stop before it starts.
My mind is the tortured soul of a terrible poet. Why is that clock all of a sudden so loud with its rhythmic tick tick tick. The crocodile in peter pan. The crocodile school report. No comment.
My toes are cold. I hate that.
How do I write? With the idea that every word is impossible and I must shred apart my soul to get anything down. My writing is not a kind process for me. Not sure it’s even intuitive. It’s not always like breathing. I write down words that I think are beautiful, so that I don’t forget them, and maybe one day somebody will keep my own, too.
That Girl Books 