#creative nonfiction

[identitty-dickruption]

tired.

There is a certain degree of ableism I just have to tolerate. There is an amount of ableism that I know I’m hypersensitive to by virtue of being someone who is disabled themself. And I know that I always have to hold myself back, because abled people start to get tired if I point it out too often. Well, I’m tired too. 

I’m tired of reading a philosopher I usually enjoy the work of, only for a comment about “retards” and “cripples” to throw me off-guard. I’m tired of searching for a philosopher’s answer to disability justice, only to find that they never thought to consider how to look after those of us who need to be looked after for our entire lives. I’m tired of sitting in philosophy classes where the worst-case scenario is that someone brings up the problem of disability, because I know we’re always no more than three degrees of separation from someone who will happily justify eugenics. I’m tired of having to hear sterilisation and torture justified to my face, because “disabled people just don’t have the quality of life”. 

I’m tired of having to read the lectionary ahead of time to make sure I won’t be going to church in a week when we’ll be discussing “the cripple” or “the crazy man”. I’m tired of weighing up which is worse; them talking about the terrible life of a disabled person, or them using disability as an allegory for the suffering we all go through. I’m tired of comments about God’s plan and strength in faith. I’m tired of being in communities dominated by elderly people who can’t help but comment about how lucky young people are to have such well-functioning bodies. I’m tired of spending entire church services too scared to stim or do a compulsion, just in case someone glares at me for making noise or moving too much.

I’m tired of holding myself back, even in progressive spaces. I’m tired of “abortion access is important! What if the baby is going to be disabled?”. I’m tired of protest advertising not having a single comment about whether it will be safe for me to attend. I’m tired of “conservatives are all idiots/psychotic/psychopaths”. I’m tired of being shut down any time I dare to ask, “what do we plan on doing about healthcare during the revolution?”. I’m tired of having to choose between talking about my queer identity and my autistic identity, in case talking about them both exposes me to arguments about queerness being a disease. 

I’m tired of being the nasty cripple who has to come along and ruin everyone’s fun. I shouldn’t have to justify my existence, or the existence of my siblings in the disabled community. I shouldn’t have to come up with a well-constructed argument about why I dare to be openly disabled and love myself for it. I deserve to feel safe. I deserve to not have to grapple with this constant gnawing question about just how disabled I’m allowed to be at any given moment. I’m tired, but I shouldn’t have to be.

#disability #disabled #tw ableism #ableism #creative nonfiction

[brotherlocust]

☆ writeblr intro ☆

Howdy, folks. I generally kinda hate social media, but I fuck with the vibe of tumblr, so I figured I'd give it the ole college try.

quick facts:

I'm 23

he/him

trans + queer

auDHD

disabled

Appalachian

my nonfiction writing:

I'm a big fiction / fanfiction guy, but I also write a lot of essays - both personal and analytical. If you're interested in nonfiction writing about grief, mental health / illness, gender, political issues, disability, etc., check out my substack idiot archivist. Some of my personal favorite essays include:

☆ death knows my name and it calls me friend - an essay about my experience with chronic suicidal ideation

☆ All Men Are Dogs: How Sex Stereotypes Eclipse Desire - an essay about how my transition has helped me better empathize with cis men

☆ A Name is Earned - a personal essay / creative nonfiction piece about my experience growing up in a fundamentalist Christian church

my fiction writing:

Although I write a lot of fiction, I've yet to really consistently share it online. But! I finally made an account on Archive of Our Own (find me here), and I'll probably be sharing on other platforms very soon.

I write a lot of heavy shit, so I tend to write contemporary dramas, but I'm a sucker for fantasy and sci-fi as well. ADHD brain demands multiple sources of excitement, so I tend to just write whatever's ticklin' my fancy at the minute.

I miss being in (digital) community with other writers / creatives, so I'm looking forward to connecting with folks here. I'm also just trying to get out of my own way and stop taking myself so seriously.

Life is short, the world is on fire, and the imaginary gay people in my brain want to be free - so I reckon I oughta let them, yanno what I mean?

Anyway, nice to meet y'all.

See ya when I see ya.

#ao3 #my writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #archive of our own #nonfiction #essay writing #creative nonfiction #writer intro #writeblr intro #intro post

[peachcitt]

we're sitting under the stars on my best friend's balcony,

and everyone but us have gone in for the night. I've just told you, hazy and drunk, that my astrology app feeds me bullshit every day, and sometimes I'm weak enough to believe it. But most of the time it's bullshit.

I don't know why I told you - to you, the stars are lifeblood, or at least a personality gauge based on spinning planets and hair size. "Leos are known for their big hair," you'd said, maybe only a few hours prior. I can't remember why I chose that bone to pick - I think I've reached a barrel-scraping desperation where I feel the need to assert, over and over again, that 'I defy you, stars!' even though it would be much easier to say that mercury in retrograde may be causing my acute depression.

You pull up your astrology app. We're friends on there, and I think I remember checking our compatibility and feeling drawn to the sex & love section, but that would be ridiculous. There's something in the bullshit my astrology app fed to me that I read out loud in drunken amusement that resonated with who I am in your eyes, sitting in front of you under the stars. Your app tells you that you might experience a big change when the sun comes up, that you'll have to reach for it with both hands, and I see your eyes flick over to me.

There's a defense mechanism that locks in, underneath my skin, that acts as a human deterrent. I look at my best friend and there is something primal and soft that begs to lean my body against her and touch her with a casual intimate care. But when she laced her fingers with mine, pushing up against my stiff palm like digging through stone, I had to look away. She knelt down by her puppy and took my hand in hers, pressing my knuckles to her forehead to show her puppy that I am safe, that I can be trusted, but the little creature watched me like a sentinel behind my best friend's back, wary and right.

I think I told you it might be bullshit; I can only remember myself contrary in the string lights. You insisted that it could be true. "What if everything changes," you said, "what if it's right and today" - we were far past midnight - "and today the-"

"The world ends?" I finished for you.

I don't think that's what you wanted to hear, the careless laughing way I said it. I stared at the back of my best friend's house today, hours after you left, and I thought about fate. I bent over backwards and stared up at the stars, framed by the staircase up to the porch we sat. The world didn't end, nor did it change substantially, and I'll admit I didn't want either. I want to stay the same forever, but the goddamn stars keep moving.

I've played this game before, and I've been the one to lose every time. I'd like to say I'm a good sport, but there's only so many hits you can take before it starts getting personal, and I'm afraid my jagged edges are sharpening in preparation. I can't let you be another meteorite I strain every muscle to push to the top of the hill only to fall back in the same bloody crater. You have to understand; where you see fate in the stars, glinting just for you, all I can see is apocalypse.

(28 August 2023, 3:26 am)

#original work #creative nonfiction #prose poetry #peach writes #listen i know this is. i know this is different from what i normally post. i know that #but just listen. listen. i normally post my poetry online on my personal instagram acc #but that account is followed by family and friends including the people i am describing. and i know they read my shit #as we all know i love anonymity in stupid insane ways in my personal life so here. have some raw feelings im sharing with strangers #and you may be asking. why post this at all? . well that's easy silly it's because i genuinely think it rocks and rolls #i can separate my feelings from my art im normal about it

[benitariums]

benita rosalind, "i hold a wolf by the ears"

#my writing #dark academia #sylvia plath #franz kafka #classic literature #poem #prose #spilled ink #substack #newsletter #poems and poetry #poems and words #light academia #journal #literary #literature #literary quotes #literary fiction #creative writing #creative nonfiction #benita rosalind #january

[21silverlinings]

Avoidantly, I refrain From opening my mouth Fearing that you will hear My mother's heartache Etched into my words.

Anxiously, I hold my tongue Repressing my father's anger That of which poisons my blood.

Disorderly, My silence grows A bed of unspoken thoughts, Rooted in past sorrows, Watered by the tears of every generation before me.

Yet, in time, I learn to whisper To find my voice And declare that I am more Than the fears I have inherited. I abandon the screams Of my ancestors' pain, To break the cycle So that one day, My words will flow Not with heartache or anger, But with love and peace, instead.

nb | 1902

#writerscreed #creative writing #poetry #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #prose #nb #21silverlinings #writing #p #writeblr #writers on tumblr #except from a book i'll never write #spoken word #spoken poetry #generational healing #creative nonfiction #poem #writers and poets #poets corner

[pairedaeza]

The only colour I can see comes from the green pines across the inlet, the golden kelp that's washed ashore. Everything smells of drying life and sharp salt.

Jessica J. Lee, from Dispersals: On Plants, Borders and Belonging

#words #prose #Jessica j. lee #dispersals #creative nonfiction

[sessayyys-corner]

GOMBURZA (2023) - MMFF REVIEW

“Vivan Los Filipinos. Mabuhay ang mga Filipino.”

This film is the story of the three martyr priests. Three Filipinos who were part of the native community who were once under Spanish colonial rule and oppression. If you have been updated, or have been listening in your elementary Philippine history classes, it’s GOMBURZA, not MAJOHA. 

Despite it being produced by Jesuit Communications, the film was able to execute (No pun intended) a factual depiction on a turning point of Philippine history without overused emphasis of religion. It was able to capture how the Catholic faith was used as an instrument of oppression during the Spanish colonial period (This was especially ironic considering how return of the religious orders, including the Jesuits, were the reason for the silencing of the secularization movement). What also impressed me is that almost every single detail in the movie, even in the dialogue, came from actual events in history. It is evident that enough research was made to make this film as accurate as possible.

The film’s cinematography was able to capture life during the period whether it was amongst the Filipino liberals, the Spanish priests, the Governor-Generals, or even the three main characters in our story. With every other scenes of the film shifting from light to dark atmospheres, this symbolized the reality of Spanish colonization — warmth, acceptance, and friendship amongst fellow Filipinos; and ruthlessness, inhumanity, and oppression from the Spaniards (and even traitors). Adding emphasis to GomBurZa’s (2023) cinematography is its sound design. Just by feeling the cinema floor rumbling and the deeply-voiced voiceover in the film’s ending segment, this film can come to a point where it deserves its own IMAX screening.

Dante Rivero and Cedrick Juan showcase over-the-top stellar performances as Padre Mariano Gomez (played by Rivero) and Padre Jose Burgos (played by Juan). Both actors have embodied their roles, not only due to the fact that they, especially Juan, share a slight resemblance with the real life Mariano Gomez and Jose Burgos. It is also because that they were able to portray their emotions from having a friendly conversation, to later condemning their unfair arrest, trial, and death.

Pepe Diokno's time and effort in conducting research and including every important detail in the production is evident in the whole film itself, as it was not only ACTUALLY based on true events, but was able to evoke emotion and outrage, just like how the Filipinos of the 1870s did at the time.

With all of this said, GomBurZa (2023) is not only a history lesson, but also an immersion into the Spanish colonial rule and the lives of the three priests. Being a history nerd and a cinephile who has since learned the names of the three martyr priests as a little girl in elementary, I can definitely say that this was one of the only film experiences where I had witnessed the breaking of the fourth wall. The whole time I was in the cinema, it felt like I was part of their conversation, like I was a witness to their lives and execution.

What also added to this experience was that I watched the film on Rizal Day, and what better way to commemorate our national hero's contribution to Philippine independence than to learn about where it all started? Like what I always preached to my family:

Without GomBurZa, there will be no Jose Rizal. Without Jose Rizal, there would be no Andres Bonifacio. Without all of them, the Philippines and the Filipino would not exist.

GomBurZa (2023) is a cathartic experience that is definitely for the family. This film is a testament to the importance of appreciating and learning our history. Hopefully it serves as a reminder of our collective past, national identity, and the importance of our freedom.

[Metro Manila Film Festival 2023]

(my film review of "GomBurZa" is also available on letterboxd!)

#movies #writeblr #writing #creative nonfiction #creative writing #nonfiction #ph history #philippine history #period drama #historical drama #film review #film #films #movie #filipino cinema #mmff #mmff2023 #mmff 2023 #Cedrick juan #enchong dee #Dante rivero #philippines #movie review #gomburza #mariano gomez #Jose burgos #jacinto zamora

[agirlnamedbone]

Because of its low budget, much of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre was shot with natural lighting, which is part of what lends an eerie prettiness to the surroundings: their world, with its scrabble of brush and dust smeared everywhere and slowly setting sun, looks just like ours. A couple in their mid-twenties gently pushes the long amber grasses to the side to explore a neighbor’s house. House spiders weave webs, fibers shining in the afternoon light. At night things purple under dim moonlight, and in evening the film is heavy with sun, bright and sticky as a melting blood orange. Texas isn’t North Carolina, but at that moment I started to see both as not just ugly but gorgeous as well, decentering in their breadth. There, the trees and low shrubs have seen everything. There’s nothing that doesn’t promise to blossom, in one way or another, into an intimacy intractable in its depths. I entered the movie wanting to be scared because I dealt with my problems at the time by being scared. Otherwise, I’d feel too needy, too vulnerable and exposed. But that which entrances us and frightens us is so often the same.

Zefyr Lisowski, "I Loved 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre' Before I Loved Myself," in Electric Lit, 2023

#op #texas chainsaw massacre #horror #film theory #creative nonfiction #southern gothic #zefyr lisowski

[putah-creek]

Reach inside yourself for the strength you need. It’s there. Your strength is in your own heart, it has always been there. Hold on to your faith in life, in your own humanity. Believe in yourself. Keep hope. Love and life will go on. Until it doesn’t.

James Lee Jobe

#prosepoetry #prose poem #prose poetry #poetry #poets on tumblr #poetry on tumblr #poem #poems on tumblr #writers and poets #writers on tumblr #poetrycommunity #poetscommunity #dead poets society #poems and poetry #poetry blog #poetry corner #poets and writers #creative nonfiction #creative writing

[devinsturk]

50 Words at a Time: Bite-Sized Thoughts on Things That Matter by Devin S. Turk is a square, printed zine of 12 micro essays I have written, 50 words each.

Topics include but are not limited to: Love. The future. Sensitivity. A game of Computer Chess. Trans rage. Home(s). A Beloved Soviet space dog. Faith(?). Queer Utopia.

The finished product measures 4.75 by 4.75 inches.

This physical zine is available in my Etsy shop. And here's the Etsy listing for the digital PDF.

#zine maker #zine #zines #mini zine #perzine #zine promo #etsy #etsy artist #etsy sale #etsyshop #creative writing #creative nonfiction #writing #writing community #writersnetwork #writers of tumblr #queer writers #queer poet #queer poets on tumblr #queer poems #writers #essay writing #my writing #chapbook #poetry community #poetry by me #poetry #poems and poetry #prose poem #prose poetry

[longreads]

“I was kind of pitching this story as The Perfect Storm meets ‘Consider the Lobster,’ David Foster Wallace’s famous essay about lobsters and whether we should eat them. That story starts out as this delightful jaunty travelogue to a lobster festival in Maine, and then it turns into a harrowing, Peter Singer-like essay on animal welfare.

I thought this one had similar potential, because the narrative is incredible. It’s hard to explain how so few cattle survived this swim, when a whole herd of them and horses was washed into the water; how do just three cattle survive this swim, if it didn’t come down in some way to their individual willpower, their conscious desire to stay alive? And if individual cattle have these kinds of capacities, then something more complicated is staring back at us in the meat aisle of the grocery store than I think many of us have considered.”

In this excerpt from The Creative Nonfiction Podcast with Brendan O’Meara, J.B. MacKinnon discusses his @atavist feature, “True Grit,” the astonishing story of the Cedar Island cows who survived a hurricane.

#longreads #longform #author interview #interview #podcast #creative nonfiction #cedar island #cows #cattle #hurricane

[midnight-scrivener]

Kids are wild, dude.

Couple days ago, me and Partner popped over to Disney Springs to a) buy some mead, and b) spend gift card money to go see the Boy and the Heron (10/10 so good).

I was chilling on a wall outside, waiting for Partner in the bathroom, and behind me, I hear a tiny, clear voice, filled with the plaintive ennui of someone who's been trapped in a time loop for aeons unknown, say, "just let me die."

*Freeze, slow turn*

Reader, allow me to paint you a picture.

There is a man, the daddest man perhaps ever to dad. He is wearing a visor. The visor says something like, "have a Disney day™️" on it in red swirly font. His hair is sticking straight up out of the top of the visor, like a mad scientist who forgot he was leaning on the Tesla coil when he told his Igor to throw the switch, henchman! This gives the distinct impression that this is not his visor, but rather was hastily thrust upon him, likely by a spouse who is also in the bathroom. It was cold out (for Florida anyway), so this man was wearing a heavy Patagonia fleece, and, in true Dadly fashion, little cargo shorts, pockets bulging, dragging the shape of the garment parabolically earthward, laden with the responsibilities inherent in being the Vacation Manager and Bearer of the Visor. His legs were covered in gooseflesh. But, reader, he bore it.

He had sunglasses, those iridescent mirrored kind that make you think of sport fishermen. But they dangled around his neck, so I could see his eyes, vacant, staring, lined with the patient resignation that can only come from loving someone who is A Lot To Be Around. His hand, large and calloused and properly Daddish, was clasped with another set of tiny digits.

Dangling from his arm with a comfortable drama that implied this was but one time of many, was a tiny girlchild, no more than maybe five years old, wearing a full length Rapunzel princess gown, light-up Sketchers, and pink, glittery mouse ears that had been knocked askew in the process of her collapse and gave her hair the air of waging a losing battle with a little bird.

This girl, with the face of a cherub and the serious manner of an elderly man of state, stared off into a slightly different middle distance than her father. Her sketchers trailed over the ground as she rocked slightly in his gentle-but-firm grip. She sighed, and reader, I felt that sigh. In my bones. No one who's never experienced the weight of deep debt looming over them should be able to sigh like that.

She opened her mouth and said again in that clear, innocent voice, "Please won't you let me die?"

Her father, aware that people had begun to take notice, shook his head. "We're just waiting for Mommy."

This did not satisfy the tot. Still without a shred of distress, just the solemnity of a gig worker with twelve different 10-99 forms to file come tax season, asked "Yeah, but why can't I just die now?"

Her father closed his eyes. He was silent for long enough that I knew on some level he was wondering the same thing about himself. People were Aware of the situation now. Eventually he took a deep breath and looked down at her, still hanging from his arm. "It's against the rules to die at Disney World," he said. "Even if you want to. But tell you what, if you wait until we get back home, you can die there instead. That way Mommy and I can both be there."

The girl's mood brightened immediately. She got her feet under her and straightened, beaming up at her dad. "Oh, okay," she said. "After Mommy comes can we go to Legos?"

There's not really a proper end to the story, Partner just came out of the bathroom and we went to the movie. But damb. I hope that little girl knows I'll think about her at least once a day for the rest of my life.

Don't die. There might be Legos in it if you stay.

#kids #disney #my writing #true story #tw suicidality #kind of #Disney springs #creative nonfiction #somtimes you just observe a little snippet of someone else's life and it burns itself into your brain and for them its like. Tuesday

[redd956]

Creative Nonfiction Prompt List

Write about a first time experience that went horribly

Make a small list of things you wish people would ask you. Write from the ideas that list generates.

Describe a seemingly mundane object as something beautiful and important.

Write a semi-fictional semi-nonfictional story about toy/plushie you have.

Write about a time you overcame a fear/phobia.

Pick somebody you know that you would like to write about, and write down a list of traits and descriptions as if they're a fictional character (i.e. wants and desires, flaws and strengths, etc.). Now write about them.

Write about a time you witnessed a double standard that was in favor of you. How did it make you feel? What was the person it was against? What would you feel like in that person's shoes?

Describe a place you can never visit again.

Describe a seemingly mundane place as if it the worst place ever, even though it obviously isn't.

#creative nonfiction #writing #writing prompts #nonfiction #writing nonfiction #prompts #prompt list

[poltergeistsoup]

Check out this season’s issue of Soph Drink for a memoir I wrote about one of my best friends, as well as more platonic themed art and writing by other great people!

#illustration #zine #art and writing zine #creative nonfiction #philosophy zine #platonic #frog and toad

[brotherlocust]

I know that oversharing about your mental health and trauma on the internet is generally ill-advised, but listen:

As someone who writes essays and fiction with his heart on his sleeve, nothing means more to me than hearing that my work made someone else feel less alone.

I write a lot of heavy shit. It's my way of processing a lifetime worth of grief and working my way through the ringer of recovery. Most of the time, I assume I'm doing little more than screaming into the digital void, and honestly, that's fine with me. I never expected anything more.

So when someone comments on or DMs me about a piece of mine, telling me how reading it made them feel seen, or heard, or less isolated in otherwise extremely isolating circumstances, I take that to heart. I etch those words into the walls of my mind, and I make damn sure that these folks who had the courage to share their pain with me didn't do so for nothing.

I have a folder on my desktop of screen shots. Every comment, every message, every story you share with me — I save them. I often anticipate that my words will be lost in the sea of online content, but when someone takes the time to be vulnerable with me in response to my work, their words will not. I save them. I return to them when I need reminding why I do this shit in the first place.

I know it's corny as hell, but I don't care. I mean it:

If you have ever reached out to me and shared your story, your feelings, your pain — thank you. I have not forgotten.

#my writing #essay writing #essayist #personal essay #creative nonfiction #fanfiction writer #writeblr #writers on tumblr #mental health #dealing with grief #ptsd recovery #recovery journey #recovery journal #thank you #you make it all worth it #you turn my attention to the beauty of being human

[pairedaeza]

A crush is distinct from friendship or love by dint of its intensity and sudden onset. It is marked by passionate feeling, by constant daydreaming: a crush exists in the dreamy space between fantasy and regular life. The objects of our crushes, who themselves may also be referred to as crushes, cannot be figures central to our daily lives. They appear in the periphery of our days, made romantic by their distance.

Larissa Pham, from 'Crush'. Published in Pop Song: Adventures in Art and Intimacy.

#Larissa pham #essays #pop song #prose #words #creative nonfiction