I get them. I get a lot of them. And each rejection is starting to hurt just a little less, but I must say, each one also gives me something to strive for. Now I’m not the absolute best by any means. I am not perfect. And generally, my writing is very touchy-feely, very passionate, very pro-black; not many people are into that. Does that make me a bad writer? No. It just means that my work is not for everyone, and that’s completely fine.
I don’t write anything I don’t experience (for the most part). I don’t write about nature. I don’t write about the stars. I don’t write about traveling… or at least not that much.
I write about the hurt. I write about pain. I write about my blackness. I write about my womanhood. I write about my queerness. I write about Baltimore, a city I have a love/hate relationship with. I write about men. I write about women. I write about liminal spaces. I write about magic. I write the depression. I write the sex. I write the ugly.
I just think of rejections as people saying it’s not my time to shine yet. One day, it will be.
Like I said in my previous post, the first draft of my nonfiction project (there’s a poetry one coming too!) was written entirely in rants, letters, and poems. Here is a combination of all three from the first draft, something like a prose poem. Feel free to comment and/or make suggestions. I originally wrote this a few years ago and have not come back to it until now.
My best friend wanted a picture of me. I sent him one after a long spiel of why I did not want to send him one. There should not have been a negotiation, but he knows his power and he owns it and he uses it accordingly.
I wonder why me saying “no” does not stick. I wonder if he really loves me or just likes what I give, which confuses me because it isn’t much.
But he tells me I am beautiful, so I forgive him and forget about the weight he adds to my shoulders. Then he sends me a picture of his dick. I laugh. Not because it is funny, but because I am uncomfortable, and I do not know how to tell him “no” without 1. Feeling bad about it and 2. Him not taking me seriously.
He knows I do not want him like that. He knows I am mostly a lesbian. He confuses me. I confuse me. When I talk to him, my voice should not waver like an old record. It is clear I have let him rot in my ribs for way too long. This needs to stop. He is hurting me. I am letting him. I do not want to anymore.
So, like I said in my previous post, I am working on a longer nonfiction work about a previously platonic turned intimate relationship I’ve had over the years, and I am going to admit something to you that I haven’t admitted to anyone:
This project scares me.
Words normally don’t scare me. But I am doing it because it scares me, because I want to feel, and I know this will get me riled up. Though I’m not sure how long I want it to be or if I want it to exist in the world or just on my computer, this is getting me to a pen, to a page. And yes it’s slow going, but once I’m writing, I can’t stop until that thought is gone.
I am currently on my second draft; the first was all poetry and curse words and rating and second person nonsense, but now I am flipping those poems into memories, into revelations, into substance. I am pouring my heart or my brain into the page. The working title is For You, My Best Friend.
Comment below if you want to see a snippet of what I’ve been up to or a poem from whence it came.