I would like to write more fiction

 I like the idea of being a fiction writer. I don't know if I have a story in me worth telling, but I like the idea of playing around with fictional characters in fictional places (or at least, fictional version of places) doing random little things, saying words I put in their mouths, and pulling the strings so that everyone's lives goes exactly as I've planned it.

Although, judging from the run-on sentence I just wrote, I don't know how good it'll be.

Maybe I don't wait for NaNoWriMo.

Maybe I just start randomly planning and writing now.

Hmmm....

Click Clack

I love the sound of my keyboard buttons when I tap tap tap away on it 

I love the clickity clackity sound

The tick tick tick 

The tack tack tack

The rhythm of it makes me want to keep typing

I had nothing to write about but I wanted to keep hearing the sound

I love that my dad made me do typing exercises when I got home from school

I thought it was so random to make a child learn to touch type when it wasn't something that was graded at school

But here I am, decades later, so grateful that I can type without looking at the keyboard

I make a lot of mistakes and I use the backspace button a lot

But typing is so fun

And I get to enjoy the tap tap tap

The clickity clack

The tick tick tick

And the tack tack tack

When the news is just a comment section

Most of my current affairs updates thus far are from IG stories and the TikTok FYP. So I'm trying to get into the habit of reading the news so I can access qualified journalists writing for media platforms that are credible and stuff.

Then I come across an article that's credited to two people that just reads like a comment section: 'We get distracted at home': Wellington debates pros and cons of WFH | RNZ News

The whole article is just - here are some people with opinions on the thing:

1. Former dentist Julie Towarek reckons there's "nothing wrong with it [doing chores on the clock], but you know, let's face it."
2. IT worker Aaron Eldridge reckons some people take the piss and some people do better from work and he's a "really big advocate for mental health". Really big.
3. An unnamed woman saves around $350 a fortnight since she can WFH.
4. Jacinta Harrop prefers the office but she knows others prefer home.

Four people have opinions - that's the whole article.

No contextual information. 

No data or statistics.

No expert opinion or analysis.

Just reckons.

Coolcoolcool.

Moments my students care for me

1. When they leave sweet messages on the whiteboard to say hi and that they appreciate me

2. When they pull goofy little faces and jokes to make me laugh

3. When I fell off my chair and instead of bursting out laughing, they immediately expressed concern and wouldn't move on until they were 100% sure I was alright 

4. When I tell them I'm having a bad day so my patience and capacity is low, and they are more subdued than normal for my sake

5. When they greet me by screaming and running to me for a hug

6. When they complain about a decision I've made, then listen to my reasoning, then say, "oh, yeah, okay nevermind"

7. When they bring me little snacks and just say, "here, Miss!"

8. When I'm walking through school and they offer to carry my things

9. When they tell me to take care of my mental health

10. When I apologise to them for snapping or reacting angrily at them and they say, "oh no Miss, we were being naughty!"

What if I just started writing again lol

 When I meet up with friends who I have not seen in months or years, they ask me how my writing is going.

I'm always taken aback because writing has taken such a backburner on my life, that I forget it was a thing I used to do.

I read old articles and blog posts and I feel so removed from that girl.

Did I... write?

Could I... write again?

What if it was just this? 

No depth, no nuance, no epiphanies.

What if I just wrote.

Not Nanowrimo

 I won't be writing a novel this month, but I'll be writing. 

Practice Makes Better

I started this blog in the spirit of uploading unfinished drafts. The point was to let go of perfection in favour of progress. It was supposed to add momentum to my writing - the refining will come later, much later. Just. Write.

But of course, even in a blog called "Drafts" I have 29 unpublished drafts that I can't bring myself to post. They're just not good.

As soon as I shared this blog with friends and instagram, I began treating this blog like a messy bun on pinterest - a cute and curated thing pretending to be effortless so that you think if my minimal effort writing is good, then my edited stuff must be amazing!

I want people to think I'm amazing. I'm scared of you thinking I'm bad, or worse, ~ okay ~.

But I want move past this fear.

I've handed in my resignation at work and I'm going to become a high school teacher (if I can land a job by next year...).

I don't completely understand what I'm getting myself into, but I do have at least one hope - I want my future students to love learning. I want them to feel the joy of understanding something. I want them to question, find answers, then find more questions. I want them to be okay with not knowing, not knowing how to know, and not understanding things straight away.

Not understanding them for a while.

I want them to forgive themselves for failing.

I want them to differentiate between guilt and shame. I want them to respond to guilt, and remove shame.

And to help my students work through those things, I need to accept them for myself.

I want to experience this advice so that when they do not want to do it, or struggle, or give up, or come back and give up again, I know that it's a very difficult thing I'm asking of them. Necessary, but difficult. Leading by example is not a glamorous walk along the pedestal, it's Jesus carrying his cross. (I used to be a Christian, so this imagery really sticks in my head).

Michelle Johansson said that students - young brown scholars - will look into your eyes and know if you are lying. And I don't want to lie to them.

So I will ask questions, find answers, and ask more questions.

I will learn to be okay with not knowing, not knowing how to know, and not understanding things straight away.

Not understanding them for a while.

I am learning to differentiate guilt and shame. I want to respond to guilt, and remove shame.

I want to grow so that I am able to teach what I've learned. But I also know that my future students have so much to teach me too. 

I want to grow so I am able to learn from them.

Capitalising on my love for Animorphs

I've started many drafts of an article about Animorphs. I wanted to pitch it to editors and publishers and convince them that a piece about deeply enjoying something not topical or relevant was interesting and worth being on their platform.

I wanted to say that even though Spinoff already published "I read all 54 Animorphs books in five days and it almost killed me" and thus have taken the element of nostalgic surprise, which is pretty much the only hope of a mass appeal of Animorphs, that what I had to say was indeed still interesting and worth being on their platform.

I wanted to say that that piece is more of a fun-challenge-i-subjected-myself-to-pain-for-your-entertainment thing, and mine would more of an earnest and sincere almost undescribable appreciation of the first 18 books I've been able to get my hands on.

I'd probably include Mr Knightley's quote about loving Emma less so he can talk about it more to add literary credibility to my opinion.

I wanted to write about finding joy that truly felt pure.

I wanted to write about how the joy I felt reading these books carried me truly dark times. 

I wanted to tie in how the characters tackle questions of identity, humanity, friendship, and grief gave me language to talk about my mental health, relationships,what kind of person I want to grow into, and how I see my place in the world.

I've wanted to write this for four years.

I've only realised now that one of the things stopping me is the thought of making money from what feels like such an uncapitalist exchange I have in reading these books.

Books are ultimately part of capitalism - the production and purchasing of them require it.

But finding these books, tucked away in the corner of a second-hand bookstore at $4 each just felt so removed from the system of marketing and attention hungry algorithms that writing about it on a platform whose aim is to reach as wide of an audience as possible may take away from this quiet and profound joy I've found.

So I wrote it here instead. A very small and quite corner of the internet that I make no money. Publishing this still makes me productive though. That by writing I'm practicing a skill that adds to the productive work I do in my current and future jobs.

Whatever I'm going to stop worrying about the minutiae of this.

I hope you to find the quiet and profound enjoyments that don't lean so much into the demands of capitalism and productivity.

Have You Been Writing Lately?

I've been asked this question by friends, coworkers, and my boss.

Writing was something I did, something I loved. People have read my writing and felt something - they felt they were seen, they felt they saw me, they felt that they gained clarity, that I put language to an emotion or experience they've had and couldn't articulate.

My writing has an impact on real people and I loved that I was able to give that.

But lately, writing has felt so self-indulgent.

I felt like I was spending too much time looking inward, pitying myself. This spurs guilt and embarrassment and I backspace everything and close the window.

I feel guilty for not doing enough, for not being involved in grassroots activism, for not being better with my money so I am able to donate more of it. I feel guilty for not showing up, for not joining in. I feel guilty for being absorbed in my pain, in my sadness.

All this guilt and shame is a wall between me and writing.

 I want to forgive myself. I need to forgive myself.

I want to give myself permission to be indulgent on this blog, this quiet space on the world wide web that a private coorporation lets me occupy.

I want to inhale and take up space. Exhale and stay there.

Me and Taylor Swift (but mostly me)

If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

I've loved Taylor Swift since I was about 13. I remember being so excited to turn 15 so I can sing Fifteen and really feel it.

Her CDs were treasures. Fearless was a present from my brother, Speak Now was a present from a friend, Red was a present from a boyfriend, and buying 1989 felt like coming-of-age experience. I streamed Reputation and Lover (rip cds)

I'm trying to put my thoughts into words but it's actually so hard to talk about my love for Taylor Swift.

But watching Miss Americana showed me that I don't actually love Taylor Swift, the person. I don't... can't know her. I don't even think I like Taylor Swift, the celebrity persona (I don't care for her social media, interviews, or pretty much anything she does outside of her music...). What I love, what keeps me coming back to her music year after year, is how her music makes me feel about myself, my life, my emotions, my past, and my hopes.

My love for her is actually a just a love for... me.

When I was a teenager, I had all these repressed and unrequited emotions and listening to Taylor felt like a release. It was like I was living vicariously through her. She sang out loud all the emotions I told myself I was stupid for feeling. 

When older people would scoff at the pathetic or childish subject matters of her songs, when they roll their eyes and say (another breakup song?!), I hide the fact that I found comfort in those songs.

Taylor Swift mentions in Miss Americana that it felt like her fans grew up with her. I've returned to Taylor Swift album after album. I always return skeptically. Maybe the new version of her is not for me anymore. I've definitely read articles and interviews from people that make me was to dissociate with Taylor.

But then I eventually listen again. And love it again.

Gorgeous sounds exactly like how having on a crush on someone feels

State of Grace sounds like what hope for a new romance feels like

Long Live is the only other song apart from Graduation (Vitamin C) that epitomises that end of an era with a close circle of close-proximity friends

Enchanted reminds me of the stomach churning nervous hope that follows after I've met someone who I have great instant chemistry - will this be a meet cute or a standalone anecdote?

The Best Day makes me miss my parents and siblings

Mean is song that I can't relate to but is just fun to my ears and my brother and I laugh every time we listen to the bridge.

I saw her live during her RED tour and it was an experience I feel so lucky to have had. I went with my then boyfriend and I got to have my cake and eat it as well - he recorded clips on his phone, allowing me to fully immerse myself into the show, while also having blurry but precious concert footage to look back on. 

I felt so old and so brown at the concert. I realised that night that my love for Taylor Swift isn't a part of a web or networks of fans. I wasn't a Swiftie. I'm just a girl, sitting in her room, and listening to Taylor Swift and feeling her feelings.

I didn't want to be in a fanbase, I didn't want to be in a crowd.

I tried to shut the crowd out and enjoy the show like it was just her and I and my boyfriend in the (massive) room. It felt truly magical to slow dance and make out while she was singing Begin Again. 

Being a celebrity looks like a deeply dehumanising experience and I can never tell who is enjoying the ride and who is tolerating it to make art and connect with audiences (maybe it's both??).

I resent/envy their luxuries and I don't understand their struggle.

Was Miss Americana a step towards humanising Taylor? Are we meant to feel closer to her after watching it?

I was surprised to find that apart from the subject matters in her songs, I related to how she used to hold up being good and nice as the pillars of her moral compass and worldview. 

A nice girl smiles and waves and says thank you. A nice girl doesn’t make people feel uncomfortable with her views

She's moved (moving?) past that now. I'm also trying to break that deeply held view that I've built my whole personality on.

And again, something else Taylor Swift did/made is just a tool for me to look at myself more, not her.

Am I narcissistic? Is her art just a fitting mirror for me?

I don't know. I just know who Spotify will tell me is my number one artist for 2020.

Relatable and not cute

Of the three common taboos (death, sex, and money), money for me is the most awkward (at best) and shameful (at worst/usual) topic.

It's awkward/deeply anxiety inducing not knowing how much I'm being paid compared to my colleagues. I feel that I'm underpaid. I don't know the stats and figures and trends, it's just an educated guess.

It's awkward/deeply anxiety inducing lying to friends about being too busy to hang out because the proposed plans are too expensive (a $4.90 coffee counts as too expensive most days).

It's awkward/deeply anxiety inducing when the first Happy Birthday text I recieve is from Moola and I remember every other short-term loan and debt collector I owe money to.

It's awkward/deeply anxiety inducing asking parents or friends to borrow money. I know I'm borrowing money from people who aren't giving from a comfortable pool of savings or excess dispoable income. We are the struggling helping the struggling.

It is my New Year's resolution to save $500. An amount I find anxiety inducing to tell people. I worry that this is a small inconsequential amount to them and they are judging me for making the bar so low.

I also worry that this amount is too high and they can't imagine putting that amount of money aside over 12 months due to their low income and high living costs.

I don't want to make someone else feel ashamed for how little money they have. I don't want them to feel the same way I do when friends so casually talk about how spending $800 on return flights is such a great price and I pretend that the reason I'm not tagging along is simply out of lack of interest.

I want to be better with money.

I want to take steps so that money is less awkward/anxiety inducing.

I am taking steps.

Perfectionism: A Word Vomit

I am so terrified about not being absolutely amazing at everything I do.

I'm pretty sure I've said that in a previous blog post but I'm too scared to re-read any of them in case I don't love them. Then I'll feel like a useless failure.

And I feel dumb for putting too much pressure on myself about this blog, which I titled "Drafts" in the spirit of the mess and imperfection of stream of consciousness blog posting.

I caught up with a friend over a foodcourt dinner and coffee (iced) and he reminded me that I truly have the skills, ideas, and an imperitive to write.

Nothing I do stems from a place of self-acceptance and self-compassion. I'm usually motivated by fear and obligation and when it comes to... er, life. But with writing, those two things just aren't cutting it anymore.

I run away from writing projects and assignments and I don't feel like there's any real need for me to write. I give into the fear and I lose a sense of obligation.

My friend reminded me that I have a very specific voice and specific perspective that actually makes for compelling writing. Maybe not in these blog posts, but there are things that I want to write about, that will add value into other people's lives.

I want to pull away from the rigidity of perfection on the one hand, and everything else that's trash on the other.

I know how my fear of failure is tied to my childhood anxieties and expereinces, I just don't know how to move passed it.

When A Friend Is Grieving

I want to message her every day to tell her I love her.

I want to message her every day to say if there was anything she needed, let me know.

I want to message her every day to tell her how amazing she is and that she is the legacy of her parents who I've never met.

I want to message her every day.

But I don't.

I message her to tell her I love her.

I tell her I think about her daily, and that she need only to think of me when she has the capacity.

I tell her I'm here, and that she doesn't have to be here until she's done being every where else she needs to be.

I tell her I can talk about my strange romance if she wants a distraction.

I tell her my pay weeks.

I tell her she can give me the seen or leave my messages unopened for as long as she wants.

Then I leave it.

I want to message her every day.

The Point: Outsider At Home

I'm trying to write about my recent visit to Samoa.

I'm trying to write about the feeling of returning home but also feeling like a foreigner and a tourist, looking at Samoa as an outsider.

I'm trying to write about feeling nostalgic for a place I don't recognise anymore.

I'm trying to write about I've thought of Samoa as home but when someone asked me, where are you from? I answered, New Zealand.

I'm trying to write about how I feel like I belong in Samoa, without having to prove anything, but also that in order to feel like Samoa is home properly, I have to give, serve, tautua.

I want to give, I want to go back, I want Samoa to be familiar again.

I want to know Samoa and I want Samoa to know me too.

I'm trying to write all of this... so here is my brainstorm.

Some Thoughts 005

1. I want to start to forgive myself. Whenever I read an old blog post, or see a social media post for x years ago, I cringe and hate my old (younger) self. I become so ashamed about how ignorant I was. I was too eager, too blind, too sure, too everything. I find it hard to even read over some thoughts I used to have. But when I'm hating on younger Laura, I'm also hating on current Laura. Because although I'm not the same person I was, that person is still a part of me. And I need to forgive them for being who they were with the information they had at the time. I need to forgive myself. Because the alternative, what I'm currently doing, is not helping me grow. 

2. Suicide is a thing I want to read more about. Not how to commit it (although I do have some days where I wish for it), but the wider social patterns regarding it. I want to read stats, and person stories, and "suicide prevention" guides, and words from academics, faith leaders, politicians, and people who've lost a loved one/s. I want to paint a bigger picture that's beyond my own dark thoughts.

3. Lately I've been enjoying readings people's #AppreciationPosts on social media. I used to read them and roll my eyes at the wall of text accompanying a photo, thinking that people are so desperate to project a life worth envying that they show off the markers of a happy life while actually feeling deeply discontent and insecure about their lives. Maybe that's the case, maybe it's not. But feeling that way about them ruins my life and my day. So instead, I read with the lens that people are so overwhelmed with genuine gratitude that even after expressing their appreciate with the people around them (incl. the ones they may be grateful for), they still feel a burning desire to share it online. Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. But it makes for a more enjoyable scrolling time for me. 

Do I need a ~why~?

That's it. That's the post.

A Dream From 2017

So I had a dream on Friday 10 November, 2017 and when I woke up, I wrote down everything I remembered in a notebook. I came across it yesterday as I was cleaning my junk and wow it was a trip re-reading it. I didn't remember from it so I was at the edge of my seat.

It took me on such a ride and I want to share it with you here. There's a post script at the bottom, that I wrote in my notebook after writing down the dream.

Content warning: mention of rape 
(I did not dream of the assault).

~

There are three characters I can remember. A girl (G), a boy (B), and the boy's baby brother (Bby). G and B start out as early-teens and Bby between 4 and 6 years old.

G and B are good friends.

G is always at B's house and so always helps B look after Bby.

Bby gets really attached to G, G is really nurturing. Bby starts to look at G as a pseduo-mother (I never see B's parents).

B's riiiiiiich and has a really flash house.

One day, G has to move out of town. It comes as a surprise to B and he is devastated and angry. He begs her not to go. G is crying and says she has to. Her mum's work is urgently pulling them both away. B is very sad but understands - he knows something Bby doesn't. They hug goodbye.

Years pass and G moves back.

G goes to B's house and B's so happy to have her back. G's heart becomes full when she sees B.

Bby is furious and hates G for leacing. Yells at her - WHY DID YOU LEAVE. He feels betrayed like he was abandoned by a parent (does B and Bby not have parents? Where's the $$ from?).

G tries to apologise and is crying. B steps in and tells Bby that it's not G's fault she left. It's not G's fault.

B asks G, are you sure you're okay with moving back into town? Yeah, I guess, G thinks. We have no other option.

B gives G a ride home (w/ Bby). First time we'll see G's house.

Bby and G are talking in the car (lambourghini-esque - hovers). Bby asks G if G can show her all the cool entertainment stuff ("boxes") when they get to her house. Bby is excited to finally see it.

G answerr, who it's something I can show you? It's all here *taps head, indicating imagination*.

Bby doesn't get it, B smiles.

When they arrive to the house Bby (and I) are shocked. I'ts a cruddy rundown apartment complex. Is G... poor?

G's mum is a cleaner at the local high school (where G goes). They moved back cos cleaners were becoming redundant everywhere they tried to live. They couldn't afford a place to live. he (it feels like an urban-hometown?), the school gave her her job back out of loyalty, she's from there and run-down accom is free. So they came back.

They moved away because G was rape. But several people -- high school boys, teachers, and others.

When G told her mum, her mum was like fuck this town, let's go. But life outside the town was HARD. They only they could be out there, was to be homeless.

So G's mum aplogised to G and said I think we have to go back. G understands. G's silver lining is at least B's there.

She told B about the rape before she moved away. He was surprised they came back. Being super rich, he didn't understand how life could be so hard for the super poor (G never told him that part of her life). He knew he was richer than her, but he didn't realise how their poverty restricted where they could live, choosing between a cruddy house in the town of rapists or homelessness.

He is in love with G. G is in love with him. He doesn't know how to tell her, ask her out, not wanting to pressure her - not from another guy. G want to love him too, but doesn't know how. She scared all she can give is come ugly morphed empty something.

She thinks B deserves the best and is scared she can't give him that.

Is she only told him that -- he would reply, the love you already give me and Bby is so much and it's so beautiful. I don't want to ask more from you. I just want permission to love you the same way I always have, and some more. I don't want to force you to accept my affection if it makes you feel unsafe in any way.

~

This dream felt very short. Came in unfinished flashes/scenes. Sometimes I'm G - crying, begging Bby for forgiveness. Sometimes I'm a third person observer.

I woke up crying. I cried when writing this.

As I was writing, details became clearer, made more sense.

Am I truly remembering? Or am I making it up when awake? Adding and changing it as i'm remembering?

But then, why shouldn't I? The dream is in my head, I can change the story however I want...

Just Some Thoughts 004

1. Lately I've been having dreams where I have a romantic partner. They're mostly boyfriends with one girlfriend (one partner per dream, very monogamous). When I wake up, I feel that I've broken up with them and I have to adjust to life without them. Except when I'm awake, the memory of them fades quickly and I begin to miss a blurry impression of a person. I mean, they were never a person to begin with... but still. I'm currently in that glum mode where I wished I had a romantic partner. To lightly brush my back as they walk past me in the kitchen, or greet me with a forehead kiss before launching into talking about the hellish day they've just had. Or someone to caress my hair while I cry about the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that visits me weekly.

2. As I get older, I become less and less concerned with what my tAsTe in music, tv, film and other at pop culture says about me. I used to be so proud or embarrassed about what aligning my interests with certain things communicates to others about who I am. I simply care less (not not at all... yet). The more time spent with obsessing about how my interests shape my identity, the less time spent enjoying/reflecting/analysing/replaying/rereading them.

3. I have a hard time saying no. So I lie and say yes, then disappoint people.

Just Some Thoughts 003

1. I'm am endlessly grateful to my dad for prioritising touch typing as a skill I had to learn as a child. He would make me take typing tests and exercises and would monitor my words per minute. I found it so tedious and weird that he was so obsessed with this skill that was only given cursory consideration by my teachers. Thank. you. father.

2. I'm trying to be better with money and boy oh boy is it a journey. I'm currently on my 6th attempt of a budget, tweaking expense lines, being a bit more honest about where my money is going, and extending the time frame to a year, to see a wider context of my future spending. But man, the first crucial and painful step, is simply to look at my previous spending. Just looking at it, really looking at it... hurts. But to solve the problem we must see the problem as clearly as possible. And looking at all the mindless food and uber spending. Well. It's not pretty. But it's a start.

3. I was looking after my niece the other day and there was a distinct moment where I was looking at her and I felt an overwhelming sense of an indescribable s o m e t h i n g. And I thought, oh dear, is this how this begins? I love taking care of my sisters' children and have zero interest in having my own children. I am though, interested in becoming a step mother.

The Meaning of Adulthood

I turned 25 six days ago and I really felt the shift in becoming this milestone age.

I felt... older. 

Since turning 18, I've been anxious about adulthood and how to do it and do it well. Adulthood has always felt like a great achievement that seemed so out of my reach. But six days ago something changed.

I'm starting to think that adulthood isn't something to achieve, or earn, or a phase. It's more of a... responsibility.

Adulthood does not require me to be perfect or spectacular or together. It does require me to consider how my life affects the world around me. Adulthood means that I have less room to be inconsiderate. 

I want to accept this responsibility while also allowing myself the grace to make mistakes and grow. I must not give into despair. I was watching Avatar today and Uncle Iroh said something that struck me emotionally:

You must never give into despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road and you surrender to your lowest instincts. In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of inner strength.

Adulthood means, for me, that it's my job to give myself hope. I need to inspire and motivate myself. Failing this, I need the self-discipline to do what's necessary, no matter how inspired I feel. And failing this, if I find myself falling, or paralysed, or completely hopeless and I've fallen to the darkness I said I would avoid, I would quietly forgive myself and lean on those I trust, so I do not stand in darkness alone.

And although I said that adulthood is not an achievement for me, making it to 25, still being alive despite many many many times I've wished for otherwise, feels like an accomplishment.

No matter what happens, I made it this far and I am proud of myself.