blogging

I Have No Words.

Sometimes,
Writing is an escape,
A place to feel at home.
Sometimes,
Writing is a way to build,
Stories and poems,
Worlds that may not exist.
Sometimes,
Writing is communication,
A way to express
What is clogging my heart.
Sometimes –
Writing can take a moment,
A deep breath,
A bit of time off.
Writing can step back,
Have to be woken from its slumber,
When I must write.
But this week
I’ve been living,
Reading,
Loving.
Sometimes…
I don’t need words.
And words don’t need me.
But I made a promise.
52 weeks.
Whether words and I
Are together
Or taking a break.
So here.
Here are my words.
Sometimes,
it’s important to live
To be able to have
What to write.
Sometimes
Words must sit inside my heart
Before I can allow them to live
On paper.

 

Blog Post: 29/52

Featured Photo by Jelleke Vantoogeghm via Unsplash.

Where Blog Posts Go to Die

People often tell me I’m good at being vulnerable, but the truth is, I’m okay with anything I put out there.
To me, being vulnerable is opening up to what is truly fragile.
But perhaps that is just stupidity, and knowing what you should share and what you shouldn’t share is just maturity.
I’ve been struggling with this idea this week.
I wrote 4 blog posts this week.
Not one of them are fit to be shared, either because they’re too boring, too personal, or too controversial to unleash on my Facebook page.
Do you know how frustrating it is to write 4 blog posts and not want to share any of them?
I’ve always been a sharer – I’ve never been one to avoid sharing my feelings, not as a child, not as an adult. I’ve never been afraid of putting myself out there with my emotions. Trust me, I’ve put myself in some very vulnerable, embarrassing situations because I don’t believe in letting things stop you when you have something to say.
But these blog posts are not meant for the world, maybe just for now, or maybe for forever.
I tried a lot of things to produce a blog post this week.
I tried writing at different times of day, in different locations, all different forms of writing.
I sat in a coffee shop, with a coffee I didn’t even want to see if I could reproduce that famous coffee shop inspiration.
It’s time I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am not a coffee shop writer. It just doesn’t work for me.
But the point is, I’ve been working hard this week.
And it’s felt fruitless.
As I finished each blog post, I knew immediately it was not the post I was looking for.
And then, while I was walking back from the coffee shop, this line popped into my head.
“Where blog posts go to die.”
And I clung to that line, not knowing where it would go, not knowing if it meant anything.
And I got home, and I started writing.
And I decided- I’m going to honor each of this weeks failed blog posts by giving you one tiny excerpt from each:

1. And as I finish writing this, I know that I’m not going to share this because it is empty of thought and meaning. It is simply a rambling, and the level of ego I need to imagine that people should be reading my ramblings is not a level of ego I want to admit I have.

2. This attitude towards school has carried me through to my adult work life. I tried once explaining to someone that I am not capable of becoming a workaholic, of putting work before life.
She stared at me, puzzled.
“Without work, what is life?”

3. Each night, as I fall asleep, I remember all the mistakes I made, all the bad choices. I resolve to do better tomorrow – no, not better, to do it perfectly tomorrow.
I’ll wake up early, do a quick workout, eat a healthy breakfast, have an incredibly productive day, still have time to hang out with people I love, and most importantly, go to sleep earlier.

4. It is not something that is in my control.
I’ve berated myself, I’ve tried to remind myself time and time again that a watched pot never boils. But alas, I can not stop myself from thinking these thoughts.
Every wrong turn, every delayed train – heck, every train ride I’ve ever taken.

Perhaps one day these posts will be revitalized, fine-tuned and shared. Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they don’t need to. Maybe there are things I can tuck inside my notebook, keep inside my heart, and not share with the world.
Maybe these blog posts have lived and died, enough for me to open up my heart, let the words out, and close up the story.
I’m a writer. I love sharing.
But maybe not everything is meant to be shared.

Blog post: 19/52


Featured Photo by Jose Fontano via Unsplash.

Dear Old Me.

I have written a lot. I have an enormous collection of terrible writing. When you write something almost every day of your life, it starts to really build up. Recently, I sifted through my writings from twelfth grade. That year was one of the most transformative years of my life. I had the lowest of lows, and the highest of highs. As a result, the writings swing from seemingly depressed teenager, to exhilarated young adult.

It’s almost my birthday, which means I’m turning a new age. Every time I turn a new age, it’s only my responsibility to look back at my past and pat myself on the back. Or slap myself across the face. Depending if I have gotten further up the mountain or slipped back down from laziness. Not kidding though, the climb is hard.

Why wait until the day I turn 19 to look back though? My twelfth grade writings gave me an idea. There are plenty of people out there who are twelfth grade me. People going through a myriad of emotions. So, why not pull out some of the oldies and respond to them? Below is a poem I wrote when I found out I was rejected from a school that a lot of my friends were going to. At the time I convinced myself and everyone else that I didn’t care. That it was okay. Obviously, it was all meant to be.

But, and as I have grown this has become even more clear to me, pretending just hurts you and everyone else around you. It makes you feel guilty for feeling angry, and it makes others feel like they are doing something wrong when they feel upset about it happening to them. I wrote this poem at the time, and in it you can see the sheer fear I felt.

The day I was born
I had two arms around me
A crib
A carriage
Mothers arms
A baby seat
They all protected me
Held me close
Then my desk kept me
For 12 years.
I knew it would be there
It knew I was coming
And it never let me down.
There were always arms
A secure embrace
A place to be safe
My happy place.
Until today.
The net was pulled away
But I already jumped
Where will I fall?
Is this failure?
Or will I fly?

Dear Rejected Etti,

It hurts. Let it hurt. You tried your best, you went to that interview and please, you totally aced it. I know everyone is telling you this right now, and you want to punch them all in the face, but I need you to know that it’s true. This rejection is not about your qualifications.  But be angry at them. Please. They actually weren’t that nice to you at that interview, and you were anxious. You should have been accepted. You should have been one of the people who are celebrating today. You should have been. Because you deserve it, and the fact that you even applied to that school is a testament to your growth this year.

But, I need to tell you a secret. I’m future you. I know what happens next. I know what happens after you put that pen down. You won’t believe me, but I can promise you that it got so so much better. Because, a few weeks after this rejection, you chose a different school. A school that would allow you the freedom that you craved all four years of high school, but also a school that had incredible teachers who fed the desperate hunger of your soul.

The net was pulled away with that rejection, and yes, you already had jumped. You already had seen yourself on that plane across the ocean, heading to that school with all your friends. But I can promise you this- you flew. Well. First, you landed. You landed safely. With all the parachutes. But then, you ran fast and took off again. I can tell you with certainty that it was a bigger challenge and ultimate accomplishment to get yourself up and flying again than to free-fall and consider it flying.

I can’t share the whole story with you right now. You don’t need to know the whole story. You’ll learn it as you live it.

I just wanted to tell you that it turned out to be the best rejection you have ever received.

You won’t regret not getting the chance to go there. You will be grateful for the experience you had instead.

You will grow more than you could have ever imagined growing.

Sometimes the thing you need in life is to be terrified for a few minutes. To not be sure of where to go. To be forced to grab on to a lifeline. That lifeline might just be your way to the top.

I’m sorry for your pain that  you feel right now, Rejected Etti. It will hurt, and please let it hurt. But don’t lose belief in yourself. Because you are stronger than you think, and capable of more than you ever could have hoped.

Sincerely,

Your Future.

 

Irony

One, I’d like to say that the more you look at the word irony, the more you’re sure it’s definitely not a word.

But it’s important that it is the title of this post, because I can’t think of anything better.

I’d like to take a brief break from my school system rants to rant about something else.

I submitted something super deeply personal to a website. They said no thanks. I’m not angry that it got rejected, I just find it super ironic.

BECAUSE the post is about how whenever I write, it’s not meaningful, elegant beautiful essays that are always saying something.

The reason it was rejected is because it was too abstract, and didn’t mean enough.

C’mon, laugh with me.

So here it is, because the beauty of having a blog is when people say “please don’t put that in my face,” I get to put it in their face.

Here goes:

I have never identified myself as a writer.

People ask me all the time “So you’re a writer?”
I always say “Well, I like to write”
It might just be a confidence thing. Maybe I just need to grow up. If I like writing, and I want to write all the time, maybe I should just assume the title.
But it doesn’t feel right.
I am not a writer.
I don’t know how to write.
I have terrible grammar. I forced my English teachers to take my papers without an outline, because I don’t know how to write an outline.
I don’t write outlines.
My words don’t wait to be organized, or proper, or in the right places.
 Sometimes they don’t even give me the pleasure of showing up to my party. I’ve been stood up by words. It hurts.
I am not the owner of what I write. I don’t write.
I express.
I open a door and let whatever wants to come out, come out.
I am not a writer.
I am a struggler.
I am a fighter.
I am a worrier, and a little bit of a warrior.
I am a climber, and a crier, a dreamer and a skeptic.
People say to always look up.
I’m always looking down. Or looking too high, so all I see is just how far I am from my goal.
I want to live on a farm and home school my kids, but I can’t even motivate myself to go do something some days.
I am a human.
I am faulty, and broken.
I am loving, and searching.
I am not a writer.
I can not be elegant, or beautiful. I am too loud and too much, I get headaches from my thoughts sometimes.
I am not saying all this to earn a compliment, or a pat on the back. I am not writing this to be told that I am, in truth, a writer, and I will go far.
I am saying this because these are the words inside of me, these are the words that are angry at me for trying so hard.
These are the words that want me to stop trying to be what I think I should be.
They want me to stop trying to fix the girl in the mirror.
They want me to unclench my fists, to open my fingers a little and let myself in.
I write. I write. I write.
I am not a writer.
When I was a kid, after getting patted on the back by a few much older grown ups, I asked my mother “I don’t get it. I’m not doing anything except for putting words next to each other. Everyone can do that”
She shook her head and laughed and said “No, not everyone can”
As a child, I thought I was writing. When people asked what I’m going to do when I grow up, I said I want to be a writer.
It is not writing that gives me such solace though. It is not writing that I turn to at 9 am and 3 am.
It is my heart.
I open the door a crack.
I let the struggle come out and write itself into a poem, a story, a novel.
I let the happiness dance across my phone, my notebook, my desk.
Sometimes I share.
Sometimes I fold the paper into a tiny square and tuck it back inside where it came from, because it’s not ready yet. I’m not ready yet.
I’ll never be beautiful.
I’ll never be perfect.
I will never be not struggling.
Maybe I will live on a farm and home school my children.
Maybe I will live in the city and send them to the nearest school.
Who can know?
I’ll never be a writer though.
To be a writer, I would have to follow the rules of the writing world- a place that every time you write, you mean something.
You say something important, and heart-warming, and game-changing.
I can’t follow those rules, because my words don’t know how to move under my command.
They move with me, they can only write what is inside my heart, and sometimes what is in there is only selfish, and full of self-doubt instead of letting itself feel for others.
When I began writing this, I didn’t know where my words would take me.
I’m not at the end, this can never end, because as long as my heart is beating, it will have words it wants to say.
I’ll never be a writer.
I may author novels, and write poems under the stars, or write non-sensical blog posts twice a week for the rest of my life.
I’ll never be a writer, but I’ll always be writing.
I am not a writer. I am a human who is searching and I am a human who is finding, and I am finding myself between the words.

Let’s Talk About: Words

I blog. I’m not a blogger- it’s not my life. I work too. But I definitely blog. I barrage your facebook feed with posts. You know what I’m talking about.

I write.
You read.
We all move on.
Honestly, it reminds me too much of real life.
I talk.
People listen.
People talk.
I listen.
We move on.
Talking is nothing. Talking is useless, when it’s not followed up by action. When it’s not followed by discussion that results in change.
I talk about all kinds of things on here. Mostly about myself, and therefore I should be the only one who has to change.
But.
I want to try to make this a little more about the action and a little less about the talking.
I try to post something at least once or twice a week. Last week, I posted 3 things, because I just had that much to say. Sorry. Two weeks ago, I almost posted nothing. It was just that kind of week.
Ideally, I’d like to post twice a week.
But I don’t want this blog to be just a place for me to vent all my feelings, and then receive your support (which I very much appreciate!)
There are SO many things that I see in my life, and in others lives, that can be changed.
I want to change the world, and I’m starting to realize that to do that, it takes a lot of little actions done by a lot of “little” people.
So those big things I hate in life, can actually be changed, slowly. With all the incredible people that are in my life, and my friends lives, and my friends friends lives- isn’t that how facebook works?
I want to start posting, once a week, a post titled Let’s Talk About: ____.
Then, I beg you. Don’t just like it. Don’t just tell me you liked how it was written. (Although, you can still do those things)
Join the conversation.
Help make change.
Whether it be on facebook, or directly on my blog, help get things moving in the right direction.
You can say your opinion.
You can give ideas on how to create a better world.
Just give of you. Make this a little less of me talking, and you listening. Let’s not stop at the talking.
Let’s practice.
The  first topic I want to talk about is something that I find so often. It comes from all kinds of unlikely sources- people who have lived sixty years, to twelve year olds who don’t understand what they are saying.
I’m talking about that ridiculous habit of saying things like:
“She’s so schizo”
“He’s, like, bi-polar or something”
“That’s retarded!”
You get the point.
Why do people do that?
Why?
Unless you are a mental health doctor, please don’t diagnose people with very real and very serious mental health conditions.
Whenever I ask people to stop using those words while in conversation with them, I always get a roll of the eyes.
“You know what I mean”
Um, no I don’t.
Are you trying to say that your teacher suffers from a severe psychological condition and that is what causes her to give you extra homework?
Are you trying to say that your co-worker has manic, restless highs and depressive, listless lows? Or are you trying to say that he was angry when his coffee spilled after coming in to work with a big smile? Yes, I googled it, because I care to not mis-speak about something that is extremely serious. 
And are we really still using the word retarded?
Talking about this might not change the world. But it might make anyone who reads it think twice before using words like this.
They don’t mean what you are trying to say. There are millions of words in the English language. Use some other ones instead.
If we can all remind ourselves to think twice, maybe we can create a kinder world. A more thoughtful world. 
Start a conversation about this with someone who uses those words frequently.
Next time you use them in a conversation, or hear someone else use them, don’t ignore it. Talk about it. Encourage other people to stop using them.
Think of the people you are talking about, and think of the people that actually in reality do deal with those issues on a day to day basis.
Let’s start being better people.
We can do it.
Share in the comments why or why not you think this is an issue in today’s world, and how you think we can make a real change.
I look forward to changing the world with you.
PS. If you or anyone you know has access to high quality filming equipment, or you want to join me on a social experimental adventure, contact me: ettikrinsky@gmail.com