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No Basis for Comparison
This week, I finally sat down and read the works of some of my writer friends. I clicked through their websites and read their personal essays and short fiction with growing awe and admiration for them. Many of the pieces I read left me a crying mess of tangled love, appreciation, and embarrassment as I found myself humbled by the beauty of their stories and the quality of their work.
For my part, trying to write for the past few weeks has been like swimming through Jell-O. I get mouthfuls of sweet words but only with great labor. My mind has been pulling in a hundred directions, none of which help me put words to paper. And whenever I sit down at my computer, I ask myself a question.
And just what do you think you are doing?
I never know how to answer; I only have a minimal idea of what I am doing. When friends and acquaintances ask about my writing career (“What do you write?”), I never know how to answer them either. I recently described myself as trying to be a “budget Neil Gaiman” to the mother of one of my daughter’s schoolmates. I recognized later that comparing myself to the man whose illustrious career spans decades, genres, and literary forms—consistently exceeding expectations—was egotistical of me, even if it was meant to be self-deprecating.
As much as I admire his work and hop across genres/literary styles, I am not comparable to Neil Gaiman. Nor am I similar to Lemony Snicket, regardless of my use of a pseudonym, dry, dark humor, and ‘charmingly detached’ writing style. I love subverting Gothic Romance tropes, but I am also not Silvia Moreno-Garcia. Although my queer identity informs my poetry, I am no Chen Chen. And after what I read this week, I cannot, in good conscience, compare myself to any of my writer friends. There is no basis for comparing myself to the writers I admire.
For one thing, I am relatively unskilled; after all, I have yet to spend years in higher education honing my craft. While I am in the process of learning how to organize long-form literature, I am approaching it as a novice. The authors I look up to are well-educated, disciplined, driven people with comprehensive knowledge to round off their exceptional talent.
I will get there someday, but I should hope I would not have the hubris to assume I have already reached that zenith independently. Therefore, how could I compare myself to them? And on the other hand, why am I searching for a basis for comparison anyway?
I have debated whether art should have diagnostic criteria separating “good” from “bad.” What classifies quality poetry from poor poetry, for example? Is it strict adherence to a meter or creative rhyming? Is it unique imagery? Or is good poetry good because it causes readers to experience emotions and expand their perspectives? Does that ring true for all art forms? Can something raw and unrefined still hold as much emotional value as something polished and pristine?
Am I being pretentious for even trying to answer these questions?
I accept that I may be less experienced than my favorite writers, but that does not mean my work is categorically “bad” (or, as I more commonly claim, absolute trash). It needs refinement, and it needs attention. But most of all, it needs to be what it was written to be; my work. I have a particular voice and style, and although it is built on the influences of people I esteem, I will always be present in the words I produce.
Earlier this month, I purchased a copy of Poison for Breakfast by Lemony Snicket (one of the authors mentioned above with whom I have little in common yet draw inspiration from regularly). It came out in 2021, but I had yet to read it. I highly recommend it if you are interested in philosophy. It approaches how valuable bewilderment is to the human soul; how being puzzled, shocked, surprised, and intrigued all at once is to be alive. In Chapter Twelve, Snicket wrote this: “We must try, all of us, a lot of the time, our best, and we must keep trying. We do not understand anything but we should try our best to understand each other…We must read mysterious literature, and be as bewildered by it as we are by the world, and we should write down our ideas, turning our stories, as if by magic, into literature.”
Writing bewilders me. It is as easy as breathing, and as challenging as running a marathon without training. It buoys the soul and breaks the heart. It requires a gift for language that cannot be taught and an understanding of structure that must be learned. Above all, in my opinion, good writing combines individuality and universality to create a well-balanced story. And that is how I will choose to assess my work.
Perhaps I am not at all like the writers who fill me with such joy and wonder. But I will strive to keep producing work for a universal audience built on my personal delights, pains, interests, and bewilderments. I will give my work credit when it is due and commit to my writing growth. I may eventually have a basis for comparison to other writers, but by the time I do, I hope I will have outgrown the need to compare myself to others.
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Hang-Dried Flowers: What I Learned From My Second Chapbook
When I set out to assemble Hang-Dried Flowers, I assumed it would be easier than putting together My Family Tree Caught Fire. After all, I had already written, submitted, and successfully published a chapbook. With the same publishing company, no less! How hard could it be?
Turns out, it is just as hard as the first time. I am reminded of something Gene Wolfe told Neil Gaiman: “You never learn how to write a novel, Neil. You just learn how to write the novel you are on.” In my experience, the same goes for developing a poetry collection.
While I benefited from having prior experience, support in the online poetry community, and a positive rapport with Bottlecap Press’s editor, I wanted to create something better than the work that came before Hang-Dried Flowers. Considering the collection’s theme is “growth,” I wanted to demonstrate that I had grown as a writer and a person. I had some poems on deck from participating in Instagram prompts, but I only wanted pieces that contributed to the theme and were well-crafted.
While writing, editing, and compiling pieces, I was also in the middle of a mental health slump. I wanted the tone of Hang-Dried Flowers to be brighter than My Family Tree Caught Fire, but I was not feeling any brighter. In fact, in some ways, I felt less hopeful. The anger in my first chapbook has dissipated, but the melancholy remained. Drafting my manuscript was like trying to make a living floral arrangement with wilting plants. No matter how I placed them in their proverbial vase, they just looked sad.
As I wrote, though, something happened. I noticed a shift within me from former bouts of depression and burnout. My self-destructive patterns were largely absent. My feelings did not control me; for once, I was taking ownership of them! I realized that my mental illness is cyclical but not a closed loop. The growth I hoped to display was precisely what allowed me to write instead of shutting down. I could share my highs and lows without becoming subject to them. My emotional garden wasn’t dead; it was just in winter.
After a month or so of sitting on my manuscript, tweaking and fiddling with the layout, the order, and the presentation, I decided to let Hang-Dried Flowers be what it was meant to be. The poems are bittersweet because life is bittersweet. Some are filled with hope, joy, and love; others are more despairing. Some are beautiful purely for beauty’s sake.
Submitting this manuscript was also just as nerve-wracking as the first. I worried that the project I devoted so much time and heart to would fail to impress. I grew nervous as I waited for a response, questioning whether or not my work would hold up to scrutiny a second time. But once more, I must express my gratitude for Bottlecap Press’s willingness to partner with me and publish my work. The founder and Editor-in-Chief, Craig Mullins, is kind, diligent, and truly lovely to work with. I cannot recommend Bottlecap Press enough if you are a burgeoning poet.
If you have the means, my dears, I would love for you to read Hang-Dried Flowers. I hope you find connection, kinship, and solidarity in whatever season of life you are in. And please remember that winters end. I shall leave you with an excerpt from Hang-Dried Flowers. I wrote this poem in response to a prompt from Alt Poetry Prompts, and it encapsulates my feelings perfectly.
I love you.
“Preserved” (Inspired by Alt Poetry Prompts)
Forget me not, beloved, through this
invernal negligence
That keeps me frigid in your graciously tended
garden bed
Despite your faithful cultivation and
steadfast lenity.
Though melancholy leads me toward
torpid slumber,
Banish all belief my affection for you lies
eternally lifeless,
Or that juvenescent folly inspired my
tender ministrations.
Only press my heart within the pages of
your soul,
An amorous abditory wherein I may sequester
my spirit,
A naturalistic homage to the sensual susurrus
of spring.
Let the foxing yellows of your journal cushion my
downy phlox soul,
Until frondescent, I shall bloom anew in
verdant vivacity.
Pink petals will open to the sun, and I shall
love you.
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“Horror Movie Highway” A Tale of ADHD Burnout, Depression, and Dissociation
When I sat down to write today, I opened a draft I started in March entitled, “Battling Burnout,” which I had ironically felt too burnt out to finish writing. At the time, I could not think of anything valuable to say. “Hello, my dears, I am exhausted and think I might have taken on too much, so here’s a post saying nothing.” Sounds a bit blasé, don’t you think?
Really, though, I have been avoiding writing because what little I have to say was unpleasant. March and April (thus far) have brought in more than just burnout. We have had an onslaught of springtime illnesses, familial challenges, and a severe depressive episode that kicked me in the teeth. It is this last point that brought me back to my blog.
I recently had a dissociative episode. Dissociation happens to everyone, as at its core it refers to losing touch with reality. People dissociate when they are tired, absorbed in a book or a movie, daydream etc. It is our brain’s way of checking out of our current circumstances. However, dissociation can also develop as a trauma response. It is often linked to maladaptive daydreaming and is mentioned as a comorbidity in people with ADHD (I imagine because it involves a decreased ability to self-regulate).
For those who have never experienced maladaptive dissociation, there are a few different ways this can go. There is depersonalization, which many people refer to as an “out-of-body” experience, where it’s like you can see yourself from the outside. There is also derealization, where the world around you seems fake. Sometimes it feels like you are watching a movie or looking through a foggy window. There is dissociative amnesia, where one blocks off important memories as a means of self-protection. Then there is identity confusion, where one temporarily enjoys an activity they would otherwise abhor, and identity alteration, where one separates their sense of self into distinct parts (of which they may or may not be aware).
All of these experiences can be distressing. I personally experience depersonalization and derealization. Since a young age, I would get the distinct impression that I did not belong in this reality. As a very young child, I questioned whether I was an alien, or a changeling. As an older child, teenager, and adult, I sometimes get the distinct impression that my life as I know it is a dream. At these times, I feel as though I could wake up at any moment and I would be several years younger, back in my childhood home, and none of my wonderful life would have happened.
I am cognitively aware that those scenarios cannot happen, and a part of me tries to tells me so whenever dissociation occurs. Nevertheless, it upsets me greatly, even though on the outside I am all but catatonic. I go numb, and my loved ones describe my voice as different and flat. Whenever this happens, I find myself suddenly engaging in reckless behavior to try to snap myself back to reality. This has resulted in some dangerous scenarios, the most recent of which involved taking off on a drive late at night up the US-101 North.
Something I feel passionate about is authenticity. I want to connect with people in solidarity and maybe help someone feel less alone. As such, I decided to write down what it felt like to experience depersonalization/derealization, and how the various parts of myself interact in my head when it happens. This is my account of what happened the night I last dissociated. If you experience depersonalization or derealization, know this: you are not crazy, there is help, and you deserve to be safe, supported, and healthy. I love you. Happy reading.
“Horror Movie Highway”
My empty stare watches the horror movie highway travel past at 65 miles per hour. Visibility is limited to the road before me. To my left, nothing but the invisible southbound highway and the inky ocean I know lurks over the cliffs. To my right, nothing but unseen fields and barbed wire fences. Periodically, trees loom over me as if to grab my car from the road and hurl it away like a beetle on a picnic blanket. My hands grip the wheel, white-knuckled, cold and cadaverous. Am I on a mission of death, or have I already found it? I feel nothing. No remorse for running away, albeit temporarily. No concern for my spouse, my children, or my own life.
Somehow I still use my blinkers, cruise control, and my low-beam headlights. I proceed safely and cautiously, despite the disease in my head telling me to swerve, to step on the gas, to make a tombstone of one of the barren trees standing in the dark like a gallows. Although my emotions are neatly reigned in, tucked away beneath the weighted blanket of dissociation, my thoughts are wild. They shout over one another, untamed, centered around decay, departure, the desire to run away from home. The coastal air swirls around me and oblivion peeks through the mist, open maw smiling with white, painted lines simulating teeth. My pulse thumps in my left ear, only the left, always the left. Its steady bass keeps time for the discussion between my hidden personality, my illness, and the numb voice of my rational faculties that seems to be the only thing left of me in this alien body:
Just keep driving until he calls, and if nothing happens before then, it’s a sign you should go home. That’s manipulative. You narcissist. As if he has nothing else to do but worry about you. He wasn’t worried before you left, why should he be worried now? Shut up, shut up. I just wanted to clear my head. A likely story. You are hoping to get in a car accident so this can all be over. That’s a good point. You will get in a car wreck if you don’t keep your eyes on the road.
Maybe I should turn back. Don’t turn back now, coward. That car behind you is going too fast. Get in the slow lane. I know I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. Oh, as if that’s not why you’re out here. No one ELSE has to be involved. Is that a curve up ahead? I can’t tell. Fuck around and find out. Shut up! Pay attention, watch for animals. We can’t hit an animal, we wouldn’t be able to cope. Who’s we? Um, hello? This idiot is insane. You’re insane. This is why you should keep driving. Your family doesn’t need this, need YOU!
Focus. I’m trying to…Wait, what’s that?!? Why is the sky ahead orange? It’s hell, waiting for you. Shut up! No, it’s an exit, near the power plant. Their lights must be on. Lights aren’t all on in here, are they? On that we can agree. Look, this is ridiculous. Pull off here, and we can turn around. He’s not going to call (why would he) and this is dangerous for other people. You’re a terrible driver. I know. And you don’t want collateral damage. No. So pull. Over. Now.
“Click-click, click-click,” my car’s blinker protests as I dogleg to the right. The burnt color of incandescent bulbs paints the damp air orange, completing the Halloween façade. I pass by the power plant, driving under wet branches that drip the occasional splatter onto my windshield. I think of the ghost stories my cousins used to scare me when I was younger. I imagine the sound they made, like feet dragging along a metal roof. Primal anxiety breaks through the mental barrier keeping my face stoic, my body stiff, and the chaos contained within myself. I feel my breath catching and clawing in my throat, like a fox trapped in a burning burrow. I reach for my phone, tap my passcode in as I creep down that stretch of abandoned asphalt, and the screen lights up with a name. The name of my partner, my spouse, my home.
“Hello?” He sounds worried. My voice sounds tinny and hollow in my ears.
“I’m coming back.”
“Okay, good. I was worried about you.” A likely story. Shh. There’s the southbound entrance, on your left. “How long were you going to drive for?”
“Until you called…or I needed gas. But it’s scarier outside than in my head. It looks like Sleepy Hollow out here.”
“Foggy?”
“Very, and you know how bad I am at driving at night. I don’t want to cause any wrecks or hit a deer or something….also, it was unfair to leave without explaining. I’m sorry. I put you in a position you should never be put in, and it was wrong.”
“I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t. But I appreciate it.”
My eyes still feel like they have been glued open. My hands still strangle the steering wheel. My words come out without feeling as we stay on the phone, devoid of my spirit locked away in that internal dialogue with my illness while my spouse discusses logistics with my rational brain. It isn’t until I overhear him inviting our puppy to cuddle that a single tear breaks through the glaze that covers my eyes. As it carves a salt trail leading to my chin, the belligerent voice of depression slinks away to a corner of my mind. It sulks there, a reminder that I am unwell, on the brink of entering into a dimension I dare not explore. But tonight, I am going to survive, and I am going home.
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International Women’s Day: Sometimes Known as AFAB Guilt Day
First and foremost, I wish a “Happy International Women’s Day” to everyone who identifies as a woman. I hope your day is full of love, honor, and empowerment. You deserve to feel encouraged and inspired today.
The past few weeks have left me little time to devote to writing for pleasure or self-fulfillment. Yet today, in honor of International Women’s Day, I felt the need to write about my conflicting feelings that emerge on days devoted to honoring women as a nonbinary person assigned female at birth. The following prose piece is a reflection of my experiences. If anyone can relate, I hope you recognize you are not alone, your feelings are valid, and you are lovely as you are.
“Woman”
On days like today, I struggle and rebel against my biology. I know how I am perceived and that, for many, the word “woman” comes with pride. I was given the word “woman” as a gift on my birthday, passed down as an inheritance by my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. I will not deny that on my birth certificate, I am a woman. I also carry the fear that comes with this gift; to the man on a bicycle shouting lewd propositions as he follows me down the street, I am a woman. I sense the pride and respect of well-meaning teachers and friends and coworkers and fitness instructors who call me “queen,” “goddess,” and “boss bitch.” They want to reassure me that I am powerful…as a woman.
But in my head and heart, I do not see myself as a woman.
I understand why some people do not wish me to deny the gift of “woman.” To reject my birthright, what some claim is my heralded purpose and glorious design, does seem wrong—sometimes. I see how blessed femininity can be, the creativity built into the fabric of a woman. I am overcome by the softness of skin that refuses to harden against the world. A world that deems such sacred flesh sinful and unworthy should be ashamed. I am humbled by trans women who hold the gift of “woman” as a cherished treasure, embodying the word in beauty and strength. Women are indeed so beautiful, and Womanhood in all its iterations should be celebrated. I admire, respect, honor, and uplift the women of this world, whether they are given “woman” by their parents or discover “woman” within themselves.
And yet, too often, when faced with Womanhood, I find myself out of place. My gait does not sway like a wicker rocking chair, creaking a soft, inviting sigh. My hips are a rusted garden gate, banging shut, with a “no trespassing” sign hanging over my womb. The breasts that fed my children do not give themselves over to gravity like so many do. Pectorals that some might call overdeveloped because they developed first pull themselves up, turning my breasts into soldiers awaiting orders. It seems the masculinity in these muscles never left me, though they are hidden beneath the outer vestige of “goddess.”
Yes, I recognize the goddess in me. There is no denying her; her creativity is knit into the very fabric of my womb. She gave me the gift of my children and sustained them within me. Yet for this, she demands my allegiance, a monthly blood sacrifice to appease her insatiable appetite. I ache and mourn the tide of anger washing me in pain. Womanhood is pain, the goddess reminds me, and the god in me reminds me to bow in deference. His presence is tolerated so long as he never usurps the throne. He is a source of strength, self-restraint, and tireless work that supports the goddess in her endeavors. To some, that masculine presence in their soul may be nothing more than a helpmate to their femininity. But not to me.
How can I kneel to only one half of my soul when I see it as two parts of a whole? Each is divine, powerful, beautiful, and worthy. Why should I be confined to the worship of only that which my external self projects? I am water and earth, fire and wind, mercy and judgment, and pain. Always pain.
I do not think I will ever be free of Womanhood. Not the title, not the responsibility, not the ache. But I will not resign myself to deny the Manhood in me. I am both, and I am neither. I am me, and I am whole.
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Writing Revelations (a.k.a. A Journal Entry from Laundry Day)
I wrote this entry in my journal almost a week ago at the tail end of a particularly debilitating depressive episode. For my fellow writers who struggle with mental health, imposters syndrome, or are going through a rough patch, I hope that this speaks to you.
January 18th, 2023
I folded the laundry today. I am aware that does not sound impressive. But I am pleased with myself, and I would like to offer an explanation.
When I say “the laundry,” I suppose I mean “The Laundry.” The veritable mountain of bedding, towels, and clothing covered a four-by-five-foot rug in a two-foot high heap. Like mineral deposits building up on a cave floor, the lavender-scented material created a new, seemingly immovable formation in my bedroom.
My bedroom was similarly transforming into a cavern-like state. Curtains stayed drawn, remnants of past meals such as coffee mugs and dirty plates piled up on my nightstand—never there for more than 24 hours individually, but replaced so often as to avoid distinction. I watched it all happen, paralyzed in my bed for the hours my children were away at school and promptly resumed once they went to sleep at night.
From my place in the bed, I felt a pull. Gentle as a child’s touch, the internal voice a nearly inaudible whisper. Do one thing. Just one thing, and then you can go back to bed. I groaned a heavy, gravelly sigh to rival Rockbiter from The Neverending Story. But I sludged out of bed, an ooze of residual human responsibility, and picked up one of my daughter’s shirts.
I slowly creased the sleeves and made a tidy square out of pink cotton. I set the shirt down in one of the few sections of the floor left uncovered. I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and pushed out the thought: Does that count as one thing? I folded a second shirt. Then I handled a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a jacket, a towel…
Finally, I sat beside ten distinct piles of folded laundry. Discarded dryer sheets lay crumpled and defeated on the now-visible carpet. I almost smiled. Then I stood and carried each stack to its destination before crawling back into bed.
I pulled my laptop onto my lap and used the dregs of my mental energy to write. I was exhausted but sleepless, the awareness of my consciousness consuming me. My dog slumbered at my feet; truthfully, I envied my furry companion. I restlessly, furiously, typed out poems and chapters and pieces of prose such as this. Even so, I only chose to write because when I am this low, it is one of the few lifelines I have left.
Writing provides an external representation of my internal dialogue. It reveals to me in vivid print the inconsistencies in my flawed logic. It shows me where empathy, compassion, and love still reside within the foggy fortress of my solitary mind. It offers me a chance to escape into a fantasy world that does not so much come from me as it does to me. Writing provides pleasure and hope when all I feel for myself is numbness and despair. Writing is a task of sorting through my thoughts: disentangling, organizing, putting to order, and placing within a formatted vessel.
As I clicked away, I realized something: writing is folding The Laundry in my brain. It is an act of catharsis, grace, care, and necessary structure. It allows me to see the floor and touch down on reality when I am trapped in my bed of depression. And while it may not seem like much on the outside, what a difference it makes on the inside! I am grateful to have accomplished two tasks today: the laundry and the recalibration of my purpose.
My dears, I finish this piece firmly in the present and not quite so despondent. I intend to start another load of laundry the instant I close out this paragraph. But first, allow me to encourage you. Dear readers, try to fold your laundry. It may seem insurmountable. You may cry when you pick up that first article of dozens. You may ask, “What is the point?” as you wade through the mire of material covering your space. But, piece by piece, you will get it done and accomplish something good for yourself. When it happens, I hope you, too, can take pride in folding The Laundry.
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Poetry In [Rapid] Motion
I published my first poetry chapbook, My Family Tree Caught Fire, with Bottlecap Press. The chapbook dropped on January 7th, and I could not be happier with the result! The cover art is beautiful, the publishing company supports smaller artists, and they were a dream to work alongside in this venture. After a year of pursuing writing intentionally, the latest successes bolster my spirits with much-appreciated external validation. But I also learned valuable lessons while publishing a chapbook for the first time.
I discovered that publishing was more manageable than I had anticipated. Much like publishing my article with the Motherly Collective, my work flew into print like a jetliner. Within a short window, I went from “I hope they like this” to “You can find my piece here.” I was astonished at how quickly a chapbook can be assembled, and I must thank Bottlecap Press for being so diligent. A series of emails were exchanged, paperwork made its way through Google Docs and back, and it was finished. I had a webpage dedicated to a poetry collection I wrote!
However, I would be remiss if I did not mention the trials and surprises of publishing a book of poetry. For me, poetry is a deeply personal and therapeutic process. The subject matter within My Family Tree Caught Fire is profoundly intimate and built on a year of distress. 2022 took me apart and reassembled me; while enduring the rearrangement of my spirit, I relied on poetry to process the emotions welling within me. Submitting the results of my inner work to a publisher felt like handing over a piece of myself for scrutiny. I was terrified.
If the intimacy of baring my soul to an unknown editor and potential readers were not enough, I also contended with the author’s bread and butter: the rejection of my manuscript. (Disclaimer: Bottlecap Press was only the second publishing company to receive my manuscript, so I cannot complain too loudly about the refusal.) The first publishing company sent the standard polite yet impersonal email wishing me luck on placing my manuscript elsewhere. Even though they passed on My Family Tree Caught Fire, the rejection allowed me to review the poems I included in the manuscript. Before I sent the manuscript back into the world, I replaced three pieces with alternate works in my arsenal of emotionally charged scribblings. It was this subtly changed manuscript that found its way to print.
Receiving the acceptance letter for My Family Tree Caught Fire carried more significance than a simple “yes” after a long string of life handing me “no’s.” It made me feel seen, heard, and relevant. My mission as a writer is to forge connections with others. I aim to build bridges between people so we can all feel that we are not alone. Yet so much of the material in my poetry chapbook stemmed from feelings of isolation, hidden identity, and familial losses–both physical and metaphorical. I worried that the work I hoped would resonate with others might not extend past my immediate circle. Thankfully, the publishing of this collection proves my insecurities unfounded.
Now that My Family Tree Caught Fire has been published, I feel significantly more relaxed and confident submitting poetry to literary magazines and publishers. Through this process, I rediscovered a passion for searching for independent publishers, writers, and poets outside of the mainstream. I found many other talented writers via Bottlecap Press. There is Grace Dellis’s chapbook Signs and Wonders about religious deconstruction. I also love Tommy Blake’s space cowboy on a little, uh, space exploration? discussing queerness in their 20’s. Finally, exploring themes of evangelical Christianity, queerness, and disordered eating, E.D. Watson’s Anorexorcism moved me beyond words and into a place of intimate connection and resonance. I might not have discovered these incredible writers if I had not published through Bottlecap Press myself.
While I am honored to be included among a list of fantastic poets, there are two questions this experience leaves me with: what is my writing focus, and should I have one? I have encountered an outpouring of love, community, and success in writing poetry via Bottlecap Press and Instagram. However, I hold a plethora of plotlines eager to meet readers via short stories, novels, and literary articles. Even in nonfiction arenas, there is still more to share. While the poetry I write contains elements of creative nonfiction, there is an obliqueness to the medium that only allows for complete clarity of thought or experience. Instead, the subjective reigns supreme, and connection becomes the central pull of the piece. Can I still call myself a poet if I am not tied to the medium?
I cannot confess to knowing the answers to those queries. However, there is a gut reaction I can pinpoint: I do not want to decide. (Making a joke about being indecisive as a non-binary and pansexual person feels a bit gauche, but I am sure you can infer the irony, my dears.) But it is true: I write wherever my pen leads. If I feel drawn to penning a piece of prose, I will do so. If a short story begs to be released, I prepare a pot of coffee and dive into my laptop. My fantasy novels are still trudging along at a slow, sustainable pace. Poetry flows out of me at an insane rate of release because I find myself trapped in my own head without it. I am content to call myself a “writer” in a similar fashion to how I call myself “queer.” It may lack the specificity of more direct labels, but it covers more territory and is good enough for me.
If you are so inclined, you can secure a copy of My Family Tree Caught Fire through Bottlecap Press’s website by clicking the hyperlink in this article or by visiting the link attached to the “Portfolio” page. May I also recommend the aforementioned poets in this post for your reading pleasure? Each one of them possesses a unique voice and a gift for language. And if you, too, are a writer, I would like to leave you with this: write whatever you want. Is it outside of your usual genre? Write it anyway. Is it a style you are unfamiliar with? Write it anyway. Have you considered yourself a young adult author, a nonfiction author, a poet, etc., for so long you cannot fathom writing something that would contradict that label? Write it anyway. Life is too short, and language is too vast for you to box yourself in. Happy reading and writing, my dears!
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New Year, New Me?
Happy 2023, everyone!
I hope your New Year’s celebrations were filled with joy, peace, and merriment. We shared a lovely, quiet night in my household. My spouse and I played games with our children and watched the ball in Times Square drop live (this may have been so our children could go to bed at 9 instead of midnight). Then we snuggled with our dogs until the official moment when 2023 graced the Pacific Coast and went straight to sleep. It was delightful.
But now that 2023 is upon us, I must make a confession. I am not usually one to make resolutions. Perhaps it is related to ADHD, but I struggle with all-or-nothing thinking in my goal-setting and avoid setting strict milestones for myself. My only New Year’s resolution is to improve myself this year. I want 2023 to be filled with personal growth as a writer and a human being. Therefore, in tribute to the New Year (and in the interest of transparency), I wanted to share something I wrote at the beginning of my writing journey in 2022 titled “Self-Indulgent Moping.”
I know. Great title, isn’t it? I must confess, my dears, I tried to think of something vaguer to call it, but I would not dream of giving it a more oblique introduction. “Self-Indulgent Moping” is precisely what it claims to be: a scathing, if honest, view of my ability to handle rejection and writer’s block. It is a raw portrayal of how I respond to setbacks and difficulty and, therefore, the best benchmark I can give myself as I proceed.
Besides, I believe some of you can relate. Rejection comes with artistic territories, and thus I am sure many of us have experienced the sinking feeling that accompanies, “We regret to inform you.” Additionally, artists know that most of our answers are likely to be “no’s” or “not now’s.” Yet no matter how aware you are of this fact, the conceptual knowledge frequently butts up against the pride we have for our work. And if you are like me, maybe that friction between pride and rejection produces a sense of failure. This is your sign that you are not alone, nor are your feelings invalid. However, you may need to pick yourself up and try again. And again, and again. At least, that has been my experience.
Wishing everyone a promising start to their new year.
-Beni
“Self-Indulgent Moping” — March 2022
I stare at my computer screen until my glazed eyes grow blurry. The empty word document teases me in its virginal white. The black cursor blinks unrelentingly at me as if to ask, “Well? Am I going to move across this page or not?” The past three hours of typing and backspacing the same sentence would indicate “not.” Words simply will not come. This is not only true of original thought but even for borrowed launching points. I have read through every abandoned prompt file in my folders to no avail. What could I possibly be missing?
I begin to understand.
The moment of realization is not epiphanous. Instead, it grows inside me with the slow-burning sensation of being boiled alive. My cheeks flush with heat, and my skin prickles as I sweat into the seat of my office chair. “Oh dear,” I muse, “It’s just me. I have absolutely nothing special to write.” I switch tabs and open Pinterest. A mire of inspirational posts on my thought board offers such platitudes as, “Write what you know. Find your voice. Show the world the story only you can share.” These hackneyed phrases dance before my eyes with the same gleeful cruelty that a B-movie serial killer would exhibit before their victim. “Yeah, that’s not going to help me today.”
My palms press into the soreness behind my eyes. I rub my hands over my face. I wonder if, along with the dried flakes of mascara that irritate my eyes, I can wipe away the guilt and self-pity inside my head. The playlist of “pensive piano music” that I typically enjoy sounds like cacophonous banging today. I turn it off and plop my forehead down on my desk for the twentieth time today.
When I finally muster the strength to lift my head, I open my email with a sinking heart. The bold title, “Magazine Submission #4582 Top Hats, Tails, and Traitors,” waits at the top of my inbox.
“Dear Beni, thank you for sending us “Top Hats, Tails, and Traitors.” We appreciate that you took the time to submit it for our consideration. Although your work doesn’t fit….”
The voice in my head begs me to stop reading, but I finish the three-sentence rejection letter anyways.
“…our magazine at this time, we wish you luck placing it elsewhere. Sincerely, The Editor.”
I don’t bother stopping the tears as they come. Each burning droplet sliding down my face leaves a sigil branded into my skin. These signs work, in turn, to summon the demons of insecurity I have had to exorcize from my mind time and time again. “Useless. Worthless. Pointless. Hopeless. Talentless.” All the “lesses” that make me feel “less than” rain down on my T-shirt and stain it with tiny dots. I berate myself mercilessly.
I should have known better. I told myself I could handle the rejection here, but I promised that to myself in blissful ignorance. Authorship was the only artistic arena in which I had never struggled. I naively assumed that the refusals and critiques that stood foremost in my other endeavors would be infrequent in this new journey. But, of course, I was horribly wrong.
“You really shouldn’t depend on the praises of childhood English teachers to make career choices,” my internal dialogue bitterly taunts. “It’s like acting all over again. You foolishly trusted directors who said, “You’ve got something!” and decided you could be an actor. “You’ve got something,” ha! Yes, Susan, I guess I do have something: ADHD, imposter syndrome, and crippling depression. Hurray!”
The wave of petulance finishes sweeping over me, leaving behind the sting of recognizing my immaturity. I really never learn. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Back to work. We’re not going to do this again: you don’t get to quit. Not this time.” I reopen the tab, which remains a crisp digital page awaiting a narrative. I crack my knuckles, stretch my back, and type:
Today’s affirmation: Just write.
Don’t judge.
Don’t despair.
Don’t even edit.
Just write from the heart, and the rest will come.
I love you.
I like the direction this is taking.
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My First Publish
Today is the day. The inbox smiles back at me reassuringly as I spy a message from The Motherly Collective among the promotional emails and underneath a conspicuous rejection letter from an independent poetry publishing house. I open the email, my lungs full of unspent air as I wait hopefully on the following words.
“I am pleased to pass along your edited and published story….”
The sigh rushes from me with unparalleled speed, followed by a short laugh. I did it. Someone read my work, liked it, and decided it was worth publishing for their readership. Of course, the editor assigned to my story communicated that they were interested in publishing. But until I saw the link for myself, I remained dubious. Rejection comes easily to me. I can believe why someone would say, “We appreciate your time but not your efforts.” In the past six months, I have received twelve rejections for various pieces, seven of which came in this month alone. Not nearly so lofty as William Saroyan’s 7,000 rejection slips, but enough to tell me two things. Firstly, I am making greater strides in submitting my work as well as writing it. Secondly, some of that writing could use review and improvement.
I recognize, too, that I am new to the writing scene. Well, to the literary scene, I should say. I always considered myself a “writer” in the vague, somewhat ethereal, wishful-thinking sense. My first collection of short stories resides in a Winnie-the-Pooh spiral notebook with a purple hardcover front in a box under my bed; open the cover, and you would see the rambling words of a three-year-old version of myself lovingly scribed by my mother in gel pen pinks and blues. My first recollection of a personally penned story was a Magic Treehouse self-insert fanfic I wrote in the first grade (Is it less cringe if you’re six?) that I wish I had kept. Unfortunately, many of my elementary-aged scribblings didn’t make it past the review board of my moody nine-year-old I’m-a-serious-writer-now-guys-I-don’t-write-that-kid-stuff phase. To be fair, that struggling artist mentality paid off. I won my first (and only attempted) contest with a non-fiction story about losing my first pet when I was eleven.
In any case, while I have put pen to paper, word to typewriter, and keyboard click to Google cloud for almost three decades, I only began submitting my writing for serious review this year. There are multiple reasons: the first is that I married young after quitting my first college major. I decided to work while my spouse finished his degree, assuming I would resume college after. But then, reason number two entered my life in the form of our first child. Our second child followed shortly afterward, and I knew secondary education and a writing career would have to wait. The dizzying stage of life surrounded by diapers, zoo visits, potty training, and living in the moment before my children started school took a toll on my capacity for focus. After all, I already have ADHD; It doesn’t take much. And in my experience, parenting is a vast sea of “muchness.” The biggest obstacle to my willingness to share, though, was fear. What if I was wrong? What if the educators, AP tests, scholarship boards, and years of positive affirmation from everyone who cared about me were false?
Despite my apprehension, in 2021, I felt compelled to share anyway. I participated in submission calls for my daughter’s favorite podcast, landing a slot in the “Listener’s Poetry” episode for a bedtime poem I wrote for my girls. The acceptance of this poem reminded me how much I enjoy sharing writing with others. I had almost forgotten the thrill of showing the world I see to others through my voice or the words of a fictitious character. A spark lit within me. My eldest was in school, my youngest was set to start kindergarten the following year, and I had more free time. I decided to finish my degree. I started writing more poetry and short stories. I picked up ideas for novels I had bandied about as “someday” projects in my head for years. I felt the old muscles that parenthood had me set aside to atrophy strengthening once more.
As my mental muscles flexed, my physical muscles shrank. An injury in March tanked my dance career in an instant. The loss of my dance career devastated me (a story for another time). But as a result, I had more time to devote to writing. Gone were the days of sporadic bursts of loquaciousness at 2 a.m. when I could not sleep. Gone were the moments updating Google Docs on my phone in the parking lot of my daughter’s school. No more telling myself, “I’ll just get to it later.” I stopped calling myself a dancer when people asked what I did for work and started calling myself a writer. Granted, I had no published works under my name, but how does that old Descartes philosophy go? “I think (I am a writer) therefore I am” or something like that?
Then one day in August, my father sent me a link to an online literary magazine. “Since you’re writing again, I thought you might try this magazine. They publish fiction about ethics, philosophy, and stuff like that. Thought you might like it.” I did like it. I had just the story for it, one that I felt was one of my most well-executed yet. I sent it off with high hopes. Two weeks later, I got a reply. It was not an outright rejection but a request for a rewrite. Unfortunately, the editor was more interested in the secondary theme of the work rather than the primary theme. I tried rewriting it to match their expectations and felt the subsequent rewrite paled compared to the first. I wrote an email back, thanking them for their interest and apologizing for not being able to adapt my story to fit their needs. I would be lying if I said coming so close only to trip at the finish line did not sting.
But today, I am victorious. Today, I do not crawl back to my feet from another knock-down position. Today, I am a writer. What a marvelous thing!
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Welcome, Friends!
My name is Beni Tobin, and I am delighted to have you here. Normally, I would skip the small talk and dive right into an uncomfortable bout of oversharing. However, as we are just getting to know one another, I will offer you a few personal details to whet your appetite.
I am a genderqueer, pansexual author living in California with my spouse, our two children, and three dogs. I grew up in an evangelical household where homosexuality and gender non-conformity were forbidden. So, deeply religious, closeted, and without a support system, I found a sanctuary in the realm of literature. Now, as a writer, I strive to imbue my works with a tone of acceptance, love, and celebration for all people who walk outside the bounds of convention.
What do I write? While my heart is devoted to long-form young adult fiction (think novels), I also write adult short-form fiction, personal essays, and poetry. My preferred fiction genres are science fiction, fantasy, speculative fiction, and horror. My poetry tends toward the autobiographical and prosaic, focusing on emotional regulation and expression.
I invite you to join me as I continue to grow as a writer, human, parent, etc. I hope my work inspires you to laugh, cry, and look inward. Happy reading, my friends
-Beni
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29
I turned twenty-nine yesterday.
Not exactly a milestone birthday, twenty-nine, but it felt special. The number buzzed and fizzed like sparkling wine in my brain. Twenty-nine. TWENTY-NINE! Twenty. Nine. I tasted its bittersweetness like Aperol on my prefrontal cortex, savoring the new flavor. One year closer to thirty but one year farther from nineteen. What a remarkable thing!
Despite the inexplicable thrill I felt, the day was business as usual. Life doesn’t stop for your birthday when you’re an adult. My kids and I did chores, played, and read together as usual. My birthday present from my kids was picking out the movie for our afternoon rest time (a real treat!) Still, even as I ran through this routine, my thoughts kept returning to my age. And, subsequently, the nineteen-year-old a decade behind me.
That version of me had been engaged for two whole days on their birthday—of course, I went by “she” then. I fancied myself so grown up. I thought the ring on my finger symbolized maturity, not naïveté. I assumed much and knew very little of what getting married at nineteen meant for my life. I don’t regret how my life has turned out, but I’m hindsight, I would have taken more time.
The person I am today would terrify that version of me. I was queer but closeted, kind but close-minded, and so terribly ignorant of—not only the world around me—but my inner being. I know I should have grace for that child who thought they were an adult. I will have compassion someday, but for now, the thought of who I used to be often brings me shame.
I’m curious what I will say about myself ten years from now. What lessons will I have learned? My eldest will be nearly eighteen, and my youngest sixteen. How will they feel about themselves ten years from now?
Obviously, there is no way of knowing the answers to any of these questions. So, for now, I am content to say how I feel. I have been struggling with intense fatigue and joint pain for as-of-yet-unknown reasons. I’ve fallen behind on almost every responsibility, including writing. Summer has been full of time with my children, which is delightful. But both of them are excited to go back to school, and I am excited for them to go back to school too.
Besides all of this, I can honestly say that, for the first birthday in a while, I’m not just happy to have survived (thanks, depression). I am actually genuinely happy to be alive. I’m proud to have two wonderful children and have a list of published works I can claim—however short. I am endlessly grateful that the twenty-year-old kid who married me is now a thirty-year-old who still wants to be married to me. And most astonishing of all, I’m happy to be me. Another thing the nineteen-year-old version of me could never have foreseen. I’m out, proud, and thriving in the life my family and I have built together.
So here’s to twenty-nine and to another decade. I’m looking forward to meeting whoever I become next.
Beni Tobin Writes
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Beni Tobin Writes 