I went to a writing workshop in late February and it really fucked with my idea of being a writer. Not only was it just…weird, but also, I had spent so long telling myself that I’d be happy around other writers, writing, and when I finally got there (or so, that’s where I thought this conference was), I was emphatically wrong. I cried in the parking lot and left the
So, about a year ago, I decided to move to Madrid. I bought a one-way plane ticket and told myself that I’d go live the life of a struggling writer, getting by on late nights with fleeting friends and really cheap wine. I’d perfect my Spanish by immersing myself in Spanish culture and dedicate six months or so to finishing my novel. I’d be writing and living on a budget.
Please forgive me, for I have sinned. @ Jesus, @ you all, @ myself, @ everyone who has supported my writing and/or this blog. I’m sorry, y’all. I haven’t written for months now and I know: I am the worst for it. Please forgive me. BUT. I’ve got a lot of valid reasons. To name a few: For starters, I’ve been traveling somewhere about every two weeks (and I’d be willing to
Perhaps it was because I didn’t really like the last psychiatrist I saw, or perhaps it was because I just got really busy and too cool for school—I don’t really know, but long story short: I hadn’t followed up with a psychiatrist for quite a few months up until last week. And don’t worry—I’m being totally facetious with the idea that not following up with my doctor makes me “cool.”
I’ve never really thought about this until recently, because I was always too concerned with whether or not I was being perceived as “conceited” or “a “bitch,” but… Do you realize the irony and audacity it takes for a man to assume that a woman is bragging or “showing off” when she references how often she’s hounded by men? Too often in conversations about instances where women are hit-on/approached/followed/etc. do
I’ve been in this weird in-between state lately where I just don’t have things figured out. A lot has changed—is changing, is going to change—and I simply don’t know what to think of any of it. It’s frustrating, to say the least, and it makes it really difficult to write (note: what is “it” here, I’m not even sure), if only because I just cannot make myself decide on any
I’ve had really high standards my entire life—not only for boys, but more importantly for people in general. For the way the that people treat me, for the way that people treat each other, for how I treat other people, for myself, for my work, for my morality, for other people’s morality, for…basically everything. And, I think that’s good. I encourage you to have high standards, especially in the face
Read 10 Things You’ll Find In A Typical LA Apartment at theculturetrip.com!
Recently, I’ve found myself spitting out words that sound like clichés, not because they’re clichés, but because I’m slowly figuring out that they’re true. And I’ll explain later, of course, but I think that perhaps part of growing up is finally giving in to all the little things that everyone told you a million times but you never listened to. It’s finally admitting that you didn’t always know better. It’s
Unlike most writers, I have a lot of trouble writing when I’m sad. I feel like, more often than not, artists are good at pushing out content when they’re upset because writing about something means not only constraining it to words, but also giving it away to someone else. Since experiences and feelings are by default inexplicable—after all, no explanation of an experience or feeling can measure up to the