jonatdoeswritingprompts

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

WP5: You’re downtown, and see graffiti in an unlikely place—graffiti like you’ve never seen before, concerning someone you know.

I hadn’t been home in so long. Back when I was in school, I was visiting every few months. It wasn’t that long of a drive, and it helped me adjust to being away. Some people leave their hometown and never look back. Some people stay in their hometown, either out of fear of leaving the nest they’ve known for so long, or from the absurd good fortune of being born in the place that’s just right for you. And I think I’m the former; it just took me a few years to reach that point. So I’d come and go, visiting home to re-fill on comfort and confidence, so I could expend those resources in my college town. And like an athlete on a training regimen, I could take my energy further and further until I didn’t need to visit home anymore. I could make anywhere home, and I’m so proud of that development. 

But, holidays are holidays, and I’m not to averse to home that I’d refuse to visit my family on Christmas. I don’t hate my hometown. I just hate the idea of living there. I fear it like a spacefarer avoiding a black hole in fear of being sucked into its gravity. 

I’m 30 now. It’s weird being 30 in my hometown. I keep inhabiting the mind of my high school self. I keep looking at the things around me through my teenage eyes. The way I always go back to past versions of myself is why I don’t usually come. I’m too sentimental to avoid it, and if that’s not a frightening metaphor for moving backwards in life, I don’t know what is. 

The last time I was here was at 22. My friends from high school wanted to have a night where we crawled bars now that we were drinking age, except it took so long for us to find the time that an entire other birthday had come and gone. It was fun, but for me, the appeal of bars had dimmed very quickly within a year. I had a good enough time, but I kept getting stuck on this negative fantasy of me settling down here and living the life of a high school peaker looking back on younger days. I think I scared myself quite a bit on that night, and after I said my farewells to my friends, I decided I wouldn’t come back for some time. 

I skipped the next few holidays. I’d planned international vacations for the first two. On the plane back from the second one, I met someone that would eventually become a long, serious relationship. A year is enough time to reach parent-meeting levels, so I spent the next Christmas with their family. My parents, wanting to see me without disrupting my independent adult life, made plans to visit me instead. My place wasn’t as nicely decorated as what my mom would do with my childhood home, but it was wonderful to see them and I’d missed them dearly by that point. One of these three things repeated every December, even as my relationship ended. 

I don’t know much about what my friends are up to. Working in the tech industry has kept me off of social media, and I keep to the social circles in my present city. It’s just the usual drifting apart that happens to people, as far as I’m concerned. 

Tonight, I’m downtown. Just to walk around and see what’s changed. I can’t help but indulge this nostalgia that always seems to get me down. 

That’s when I saw it; a piece of painted art that covered the wall of a pizza joint I used to go to with my friends. It used to be a blank brick wall with an empty lot that always ended up being used for extra parking. And now, every inch of it was covered, with light fixtures placed on top of the building to keep it vibrant and visible at all hours. 

There was quite a lot in the image. It was very symmetrical. It was like a mural, where you could focus on one corner of the piece as if it was an entire piece of its own. One corner showed people marching and holding signs. One corner showed some of the more iconic landmarks of our community; the statue of the university founder that revived this town after the coal mines dried up a century ago, the national park nearby that our state was best known for, and a few images invoking our state bird, tree, flower, and so on. There were images that I didn’t quite understand; I could tell what they were, but their meaning was lost on me without a certain hometown context. But right in the center, was the face of my childhood friend. He was depicted in a suit and tie, and with a small American flag on his lapel. We called him Believer, not because of anything he believed, but because the loud, confident kid pointed at him on a basketball day of gym class and said “if you believe in me, I’ll make this full court shot”, and drained it. He was quiet. He fell asleep in class and always seemed to be trying to keep out of the way, even in environments that accepted and welcomed him. 

It was surreal, looking at his face on the wall as he looked triumphantly, confidently into the distance. Even with a decade of distance from those years, I could see that it was him, and to avoid any other doubt, his name was printed in the corner, along with the artist’s. 

I pulled out my phone and googled him. About 26,000,000 results in 0.80 seconds. Our congressional district had elected him to the House of Representatives, over an incumbent that had been in that seat for 20 years, a person who was a descendant of the university founder that built this town. Since taking office, they’d been particularly important issues, and was emerging as an important climate activist. He’d been applying outsider pressure to a insular political system, and had won the hearts and minds of millions of people outside of our tiny town. And he’s 30 years old, like me. 

I sat on the ground, in the middle of the lot, scrolling through news articles with a mural to him in the background. A kid who was called Believer because someone claimed his belief had altered reality to make an impossible shot happen, was now altering political reality with beliefs that millions were willing to follow. 

I was impressed. I was proud of this person that a previous version of myself was relatively close with a decade ago. I felt a weird pride for my hometown; like he was proof that more could come out of this place than a dull suburban existence. I felt a bit ashamed to not have known this, and made a mental note to find a diet of news that didn’t involve social media. I felt an urge to download Spacebook and message him in congratulations, but considered that he’d probably been bombarded with suspiciously-timed messages from old acquaintances since rising to prominence, and decided against it. 

I just sat there and marveled at what I’d learned. I went through the mural again, now able to tie each image to something from a news article reporting something he’d done. More than anything, I felt inspired. I felt empowered. I felt refilled with comfort and confidence. 

Maybe I could afford to come home a bit more often. 

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

WP 4: You’re at work and you print something personal (and sensitive). Unfortunately, you’ve sent it to the wrong printer and, by the time you realize it, somebody else has already scooped it up.

It was finally finished. Holy shit, it’s finished. 

I don’t like my job. The job is probably fine and I should probably be grateful. But I don’t like it. It makes me feel shitty. I’m a marketing associate at a local accounting firm. I suppose I should be happy that I got a job after finishing my degree. I know a lot of people who weren’t even that lucky, and recognizing that makes me feel bad about complaining about it. And yet, there’s no honest way to evaluate how I feel about my situation without recognizing that I’m miserable. The work I do isn’t interesting. The work I do doesn’t matter. My job is bullshit. My job could disappear from the face of the earth tomorrow and human society would be no worse for it. I have about 8 hours worth of actual work in any given 40 hour week, and yet, I have to constantly pretend to be busy during all hours, because this charade is the only thing that keeps me employed. It’s soul draining and I’ve become so, so afraid that this is all there is. 

A few months ago, I was at my lowest because of this. There was a day of work where I did nothing and it made me so miserable that my body ached. I felt so useless, down to my core, and I had to do something about it. Anything. I opened up a word document and started typing, just to get this feeling out of my body and onto a page. I ended up feeling 4 pages after about an hour. It was a rambling, disorganized mess, but I felt proud. I think it just felt good to create something. It felt like the first hour of labor I’d performed that had meant something. 

So, I thought, maybe I should try writing. 

I spent the next few months writing during my many hours of downtime at work. It started as these rambling, emotional essays like the first time. And then, I started playing with the idea of making something bigger. Something longer. A real project and a long-term goal, instead of whatever small idea I can find to fill the time. A website for writing prompts gave me the starting point, and I decided I’d try to write a novel. I had no plans to publish it; it’s not like I was a real writer or anything. But I was so focused on how good it would feel to be able to say “I wrote a novel this year” if anyone asked me what I was proud of. I felt like, without this, I’d have no answer to that question, and the fear of that situation kept me focused. 

Which brings me to today. It’s finished. Edited and everything. I decided, after finishing the first draft, that I’d submit it for publication anyway. I loved the idea of holding the rejection letters, printed on official publishing company letterhead, to have as a testament to what I’d completed. Maybe I even get some feedback, I learn how to do this the right way, and eventually write my way out of this cubicle. I was careful to not let myself get my hopes up about that possibility in the name of realism, but I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind. 

And what better way to put a bow on this achievement by having the company pay for my printing costs? Besides, I don’t own a printer, and this is 254 pages. They don’t pay me enough to cover such costs on my own. I took a breath, hit print, and let the tension flow out of my body. In a few minutes, I’d be holding a physical copy of a book, written by me. I’d weigh all 254 pages on the postage machine and feed it an envelope from the supply room. I’d put all 254 pages into the envelope, write the name and address of the publisher on the front (which one? I should research that), I’d write my return address in the upper left corner (oh wait, should I use a pen name? I should research that too), I’d put it in the mail, and eagerly await my prized rejection letter. 

My desk was right by the printer. This was truly unfortunate when it was tax season, and every employee had 300 page tax returns to assemble. But now it was my turn, and this time, when I heard the printer, it’d be like music. 

Except, I couldn’t hear the printer. Why couldn’t I hear the printer? I got up and checked the status screen. No pending jobs in the queue. Why the hell not?! 

I speed-walked through the office. It had to be on another printer. As I turned the corner, I froze. I saw one of the firm’s partners, standing in front of the printer on the opposite side of the office. A stack of papers sat on the printer, and he held the first few pages in his hands as he read. The first page was a title page, with my real name, so there was no hiding that it was mine. 

He looked up at me. “I was wondering who was printing tax returns in November...” 

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I imagined just grabbing it from him and shoving it in the shred box, but I could only manage to imagine it. 

“You wrote this?”

I nodded. My head was buzzing and I was grasping desperately for something to say. Fear of losing my job, the one I hated and wanted to escape from, was overwhelming. 

“What are you printing this for?”

“To, um, send it to a publisher.”

The partner’s face didn’t move, he just nodded as he read the second page. The protagonist was an obvious surrogate for me, and the first moments of the novel set the scene of a young person in a job they hate. I was sure he would connect those dots. 

“Well, I can’t say this is a good use of our resources. Paper and employee salaries are our biggest expenses, and this doesn’t seem like a good use of either.”

There was a pause that was longer than I could bear. 

He sighed, placed my pages in the stack, and held it out for me to take. I took the pages and held them against my chest like a parent protecting their child. “Is this, um, alright?”

The partner sighed. “Honestly, not really.” His eyes were on the ground, like he was focused more on something in his internal world than this conversation. “I wrote stories in high school, can you believe it? I never took it further than just having the thought: ‘maybe I can be a writer someday’. And now I’ve got this new grad in my firm that’s written more in their lifetime than I have, as a grown-ass man.” 

His face was hiding emotion to a degree that I found terrifying, but a small smile cracked. “I guess I’m a little jealous. And I’m happy for you. I wish I’d had the mind to something like this at some point in my career.” 

He patted me on the shoulder. I was dumbstruck; my body was still wracked with fear, and I was struggling to keep up with what was happening. “Let me know what they say. And try to do this at home from now on.” 

I could only manage to squeak out a pathetic-sounding “thanks” before he walked back to his office. I scurried back to my desk, feeling better about this office than I ever had.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

WP3: One Day you come into work and find a cookie mysteriously placed on your desk. Grateful to whoever left this anonymous cookie, you eat it. The next morning you come in and find another cookie. This continues for months until one Day a different object is left—and this time there’s a note

((Note: I attempted this before and got stuck on the first paragraph. I couldn’t figure out where to go with it. Let’s try again))

I’d been working at CompuTech for 4 years now. It was fine, I supposed. The company was small, never seemed to grow or change very much, but there was something cozy and stable about it. I was never one to be all that close to anyone in any office I worked in. I’d seen shows and heard stories of offices where people feel like their co-workers are their family, and their best friends. Where entire offices are happy to spend their weekends or evenings together. Where co-workers are invited to weddings. My limited experience since joining the workforce made that idea feel very fictional to me. We’d chat in the office, we’d have lunches together, we’d be friendly, but I’d hardly describe any of these people as more than acquaintances. And that was fine by me. 

A week ago, I found a cookie at my desk. Maybe someone brought cookies and passed one out to everyone, how kind. I had a late lunch, so I figured I didn’t see a cookie on anyone else’s desk because they’d gotten to it already. It was oatmeal raisin. A delicious flavor of cookie that had an unfair amount of baggage, in my humble opinion. 

A new cookie showed up every day, around the same time. This went on for a few weeks. I even took my lunch at my desk one day to try and find who was giving these cookies out and thank them in person. No cookie came until I left for a meeting and came back. Was this person actively watching me and waiting for me to leave? How weird. But still, the cookies were delicious. The flavors changed frequently. Chocolate chip was the last one I received. 

One day, the cookies stopped. It had been months at this point. I’d given up on finding who had done it and just accepted it for the gift it was apparently meant to be. That day, I found myself craving something sweet after lunch. I waited a while to see if the cookie angel was running late. I stepped into a meeting room to work for 30 minutes to see if one would materialize when I returned, and it didn’t. I ran down to the vending machine for a candy bar to satisfy the craving, but some part of me felt disappointed. 

The next day, I got into work and there was a stack of cards on my desk, with a sticky note on the top. I flipped through the cards, and they were recipes for all kinds cookies. Oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, white chocolate macadamia nut, snickerdoodle, and so on. The recipes were handwritten. I read the note:

“You’ve always seemed a bit salty and cold at work, so I wanted to give you something sweet to warm you up. I got laid off today, but these should help you keep up the tradition! Yours, Judy (the temp office assistant, if you don’t remember). 

Something felt heavy in me. I didn’t realize that’s how people had seen me. I didn’t realize my role in building that business-only social experience I’d had. But that dread started to fade as I considered how sweet it was to have someone do so much to reach out to me like that. Homebaked cookies on a daily basis for months? That sort of kindness felt fictional to me, too. But it wasn’t. Maybe that’s the whole point. 

Our instant messenger lit up with a company-wide invitation to happy hour after work. I’d gotten into the habit of expecting and ignoring that ping, but this time, I opened a tab on my browser to look up directions to the bar. 

Before I closed my laptop for the day, I opened up LinkedIn and searched for Judy. I’d have to think of some way to thank her. I still don’t quite feel like I know what I’m doing. I still don’t know how these relationships are supposed to work, when work is involved. But for now, I suppose, it’s enough to just click “Connect”, and to continue from there. 

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

Meta: Shaking the Dust

t’s been about two years since I’ve written here. It’s probably been about two years since I’ve written much of creative value altogether.

Many of these stories came from a confusing, emotionally turbulent romance with the person that is now my partner. I was hurting quite often back then. Something about that situation hurt, and it also made it easy for me to hurt myself. It wasn’t just painful on its own terms, it opened the door for a lifelong pattern of self-loathing to bring that pain upon myself. I was thinking about what was happening and how to solve it all the time, and I think it forced me to explore some pretty interesting corners of love and relationships in order to work through it.

Truth be told, I’m actually proud of myself for what is written here. I’m proud of some of these lines. They’re incomplete and half-baked, but they have that glimmer of insight and that creative spark that I have a hard time identifying in myself lately. It’s encouraging to no end to see writing that I find interesting, written by myself.

Since my partner has accepted me and since I found stable work, two of the defining struggles of this period came to a neat ending. Instead of living in angst and confusion, I was able to live a relatively comfortable, happy existence. It wasn’t without road-bumps and problems, but it didn’t leave me wandering and seeking answers to big, life questions. And without anything pushing me to explore that, I think that creative voice has gotten so quiet that I’ve begun to wonder if it still exists.

I have to believe that these things don’t just go away. I have to imagine that it’s like a muscle that grows weak because it’s not trained, and not like a flame that’s extinguished when it’s not tended to. I wonder if I need that challenging situation in my life again. Or, I wonder if it’s just a matter of training. Back then, I was writing nearly every day; I wonder if that was the difference maker, instead of the personal difficulties.

I’m not entirely happy with the life I live now, but the specific struggles that fueled that writing have improved dramatically. I love my partner. I enjoyed my career. I still have plenty of existential dread with me, so maybe that’s something I can work with. I’m generally unhappy with where I live. I’ve got plenty to work with, but it makes me feel numb instead of inspired. I surrender my attention and energy to time-wasting technology that doesn’t deserve it. I spin my wheels and go in circles in my development efforts because none of them quite ring true as the right thing for me to work on. Writing has fallen into that bucket.

Still, at the end of the day, this is the creative thing that I’m best at. If I’m going to be creative, this is the medium that suits my talents and experience best. This is the only medium with any kind of resonance with me and it’s the only one that I feel competent in navigating. This is the foundation upon which any other creative work gets built.

So, I’ll jump in and see where this goes.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

I can see why people are afraid of being in love. 

Not too afraid to desire it, of course. Not too afraid to long for it. Afraid of what it means. What it entails. Afraid of accepting it, or giving it, or taking something for themselves that they might lose someday. 

I get it. It’s not easy. There’s the basic objections that are perhaps a bit shallow but still entirely valid. Fearing the commitment. Fearing the responsibility that comes with being a lover, and with being loved. Fearing the missed opportunities that comes from devoting one’s time and efforts towards a single person. Fearing the special self-torture that comes from asking yourself “what if”. These are simple objections but they feel enormous. Everyone’s felt at least one of these, with enough severity that it’s been crippling. 

There are some fears that relate to the self. Fear that the lover is wrong about the qualities of the loved; that there’s an ugliness that the lover doesn’t see that the loved must hide. Fear that feelings will fade; that one might love someone now, but might not always, and that one’s younger self traps the older self into a loveless commitment. Fear that the loved simply isn’t good enough, and never will be good enough, to deserve the love of the lover; creating a guilt and re-enforcing self disgust. 

I’ll finish this thought. But it’s not as easy as our parents made it out to be. Not by a long shot. Love isn’t for the faint of heart. And I don’t intend to be faint with this. 

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

"I love you," she whispered into her pink cell phone. Nothing but music and the rustle of paper returned what she thought was an open and honest expression. 

"Did you hear me?" she paused. "I said I love you."

He heard her, of course. But he didn’t know what to say. 

“I...” 

She leaned forward in anticipation. “...yes?”

He sighed. He’d always wanted this. He’d always wanted this person to say those words. But he had a sinking feeling in his gut that he couldn’t ignore.

“I don’t think I believe you.”

Silence and static hung between them. Her phone captured his restless shuffling, and the light jazz piano playing in the background. Her arms were crossed to protect her from the brisk evening air. The ash on her cigarette was long now. 

“...What do you mean you don’t believe me?”

He hated doing this. He hated being this person. Doubt rushed over him. Doubt in the conclusion he’d jumped to. Doubt in his ability to receive such feelings. Doubt in his love-worthiness. But, he had to stay consistent. 

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right. You don’t... I don’t think you really act like you love me.”

She was stunned. What the fuck did that even mean? How, exactly, should one act? 

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

He could not tell her his name

She picked a wine bar for our third date. 

It was a fine enough place, I suppose. Our waitress seemed new, and nervous. She spilled on the table far more often than one would expect from someone who poured wine for a living. But she was nice, and she was trying. 

The place was nearly empty. A pair of colleagues sat near the door, and another couple was at the bar itself, although they clearly didn’t want to be. Lighting was dim and soft, pre-recorded jazz filled the room. 

Jane was talking. Telling me about her hometown. She’d mentioned her family coming from Mexico, and her hometown being in Las Vegas. She mentioned home a lot. I don’t think she likes it her, but she’s trying to. I can respect that.

I think more than I listen. It’s a bad habit. My mind just wanders and sometimes I can’t snatch it back. I’ve mastered courtesy and politeness. She can’t tell. But I’m thinking about things besides Jane, and her family in Mexico, and her home in Las Vegas, and the jazz music, and the nice-but-unskilled waitress. 

“That’s sweet. What does family mean to you, exactly?” It was almost automatic. It’s like a reflex. Her story barely registered in my mind, and I still managed to give a thoughtful response to keep things going. I’m kind of ashamed, but it’s how I am now. Maybe there’s not much to be done about it. 

See how bad it’s gotten? I’m not even thinking about anything in particular. There’s no imaginary conversation, no fantasy, no abstract thought, that’s keeping me from actually being here. With Jane. I’m distracted by my thoughts about being distracted. How shameful. I’m garbage. I’m a bad person.

“That’s so sweet! Do you want a family of your own someday?”

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t spend time with someone and just pretend to be here. Maybe I need to change. Maybe I need to find more interesting people. Would that even work? Am I stuck into being like this? Will this pattern of half-listening and emotional skepticism preclude any relationship that actually threatens to be deeper? Is this the result, or the cause of my loneliness?

I stand up. I’m not sure I meant to stand up, but I’m standing. Jane looks confused. She was mid sentence. Definitely not polite. “Is everything alright?” she asks. I just stand for a while. My mind is racing. Social anxiety and self-loathing are overwhelming. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Then something does. 

“I feel bad saying this but I need to leave right now or else my mind is going to tear itself apart. You’re very sweet, you’re very beautiful, your love for your family is endearing, but I can’t summon the will to just sit here and listen to you because either I fundamentally don’t know how to do that, or my interest in you has faded into thin air. I literally can’t tell the difference anymore and I hate myself for it. I don’t know what to do about this or why I’m like this but I do know that a sweet and beautiful woman like you is wasted on the half-of-a-person that I am. I have no confidence in my ability to do anything but pretend to be here and I can’t live with myself doing this to you any longer. Not for another motherfucking second. You’re perfect. You’re like a goddamn angel and I can’t present anything but a pre-programmed husk to you.”

I stop. I’m panting. She’s speechless. I’m speechless. Our nice but nervous waitress is speechless. I need to leave. I need to get out. I’ll die if I don’t. I put money on the table. I think it’s a lot. I don’t know. I need to leave. I need to leave. 

“Jason, wait! I... can’t we....?” She don’t know what to say but she feels like she needs to say something. I know that feeling. I hate that feeling. 

“That’s not my name. That’s not my fucking name. I don’t know who that is. I don’t know who that is anymore.”

And so I ran.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

We cry when melancholy collides with specificity.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

I’m not all that big on writing poetry. The structure and flow never quite worked for me. I started with fiction, and now it’s more like journaling But now I want to explore what this could be.

I shouldn’t put so much effort into rhyming It might be better to just focus on the timing But constraints can mean structure, it’s comforting Doing it like this might be easier than it seems

I’m doing this because I hope that something will be unlocked Like flexing other creative muscles can beat writer’s block I need to do more because I need to stop Writing when she makes me feel a lot

When I call myself a writer and think of what I’ve done Lately, all of it is reflection on what she and I have become There’s more to me than that. I’m capable of doing much better. She shouldn’t own so many of my thoughts, so I can’t let her.

Not to say that she isn’t worth it But writing for someone else is less than perfect This craft is mine, I weave words for me And if she saw this, I hope she’d agree.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

Poem topics/titles

Here Is My Thanks

Whiskey and Wine

Life is Boring

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

You bump into an ex-lover on Valentine’s Day—the one whom you often call “The One That Got Away.” What happens?

I struggle to believe my eyes at first. It’s been such a long time that she’s changed enough for her to be harder to recognize. I have to ask if it’s my imagination or not.

But sure enough, she’s there. Buying wine. 

My imagination gets to work. I wonder what she’s been up to, and I imagine some of the possibilities. Maybe she’s running a restaurant. Maybe she finally became a set decorator in the film industry. Maybe she’s a teacher. Maybe she’s still lost. Maybe she has a kid now. Or a husband. Or a dog. Or two dogs. Or a house. Or a one-bedroom apartment for herself alone. Maybe she went to Canada, or to Spain like she’s always wanted, or back home to Mexico for a while. 

It’s fun for a while. Walking myself through the possibilities and asking if they fit. Imagining them anyway. 

And next, I ask what I always asked in the time before and after our time together; “why not me?”

It’s natural. It’s a reflex by now. It just made so much sense. She’s always been into average-looking white guys. She’s always complained about how she can’t trust her partners, and then complimented me on my trustworthiness. We’ve always gotten along so naturally, we’ve shared so many experiences, we’ve shared interests, we’ve shared humor, we’ve shared everything. It just made sense. But only to me.

A long time ago I learned that these things just happen. That sometimes attraction is there, and sometimes it isn’t, and it’s nobody’s fault but it’s the reality. Sometimes it’s just as simple as their eyes being closed to the possibility. Sometimes they can’t picture you in that light because the bond is too strong already. Sometimes it’s confusing love for infatuation, and obsessing over the idea that it’s missing. Sometimes you just mean too much to risk it on something romantic. Sometimes it’s just sex. Sometimes it’s just a warm chest with a beating hard to rest your head on. Sometimes it’s just a soft place to land.

It’s part of who I am. I’m a sentimental imaginative person. I can imagine a future with someone, play with the idea, create that world and live in it for a while, until reality calls me back and I get homesick for the future I built in my mind. Maybe I could spare myself some frustration if I didn’t do that. But those worlds are too sweet to leave forever, and those imaginary homes are too beautiful to burn down.

 I’ve wandered around the liquor store, lost in my imagination for ten minutes by now. I’m sure she’s gone. I’m sure she’s got plans that she can’t linger for. Should I talk to her? I shouldn’t talk to her. That type of thing wouldn’t be welcome. It’s been years but I feel like I can’t change the terms of our departure. But it’d be rude not to, right? Like seeing an old friend, why not catch up for a few minutes? It’s a bad idea, but I could justify it at least. Maybe something good will happen. Maybe she’s alone tonight and wants her soft place to land back. Maybe it’ll go in my favor. And if not we resume not speaking. Right? Okay, yeah. Right.

I approach. She’s focused on wine. She’s always been thoughtful about that stuff.

I say her name. 

She ignores me. 

I say it again. 

She seems annoyed. Maybe a little confused. 

I’m worried. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t be here. She obviously doesn’t want to see me. 

I try one more time.

She glares at me. “That’s not my name. Leave me alone please.”

It wasn’t her. 

Maybe I wanted it to be her. Maybe that’s why I saw her in somebody else. 

There’s that imagination again. 

Whatever. That’s fine. Awkward thing that just happened there, but I’ll live. I’ve got to get going. 

I’ve got a date waiting for me at home.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

WP: Breaking up with writer’s block

You knew this was coming. I’d say “it’s not you, it’s me”, but no, it’s definitely you.

You’re one of the things that’s so obviously bad for me, that I keep coming back to because it’s comfortable. I’ve always known I was capable of writing something remarkable. I’ve always known that I’ve consumed enough creative work to know what it would take to create my own. I’ve always had this tugging at my chest, like something was trying to get out. And you’re the one that’s kept me from that for my entire life. You represent the fear of having created something bad, and so you kept me from writing at all to avoid that. You represent the fear of being judged by others, and so you made sure I judged myself so harshly that nothing could survive under that pressure. You kept me from taking the imagination I’ve honed for so long and applying it to any actual tangible work.

You’ve taken everything good about me and hidden it from everyone. And it can’t continue.

Of course I like the cognitive comfort of pointing to writing as my creative effort, regardless of how much I actually write. Of course I like having something to blame when I see how little a self-identified creative person actually creates. But I need this more than I need the comfort you provide.

I’ve seen people that I’ve seen as my creative counterparts fly past me. Get creative jobs. Put out incredible creative work. And I don’t resent them; I’m proud of them. But I do resent myself for not being there, too. I know, deep down, without a shadow of a doubt, that the reason for that is not working on this enough. I know it’s because it’s because I’m a writer that doesn’t write. I’m a creative that doesn’t create. And if it says that way, I’ll always be lying to myself and always be frustrated for doing it.

I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned how creative people think, I’ve learned how creativity works, and I know how it feels to create. Someone I love very much showed me what it feels like to write as a release. She reminded me what it feels like to have something inside pounding to get out, and then letting it out. She reminded me that beautiful phrases exist within me, if I’m willing to look for them and bring them out. 

Now that I have what she’s shown me, I don’t need you anymore. It starts here. Writing about how I feel. This part is so easy. I just sit in front of the keyboard, find some music to match my mood, and bleed onto this page. I type until my fingers hurt and my mind wanders, and the next day, I wake up to an insight that I’m proud of, and thankful for having written down. After that, I’ll turn those feelings into characters, and settings, and stories. I’ll make those feelings visible without explicitly describing them. I’ll read it hundreds of times and make changes until it’s as close to perfect as I can manage. And then I’ll put it out into the world, and maybe, just maybe, someone receives those feelings through my words and learns something about themselves. And all of that time and effort will have been worth it. 

Writer’s block, the excuse I’ve leaned on to avoid the most interesting and fulfilling work of my life, has no place in my life anymore. You’re not welcome here. I know you’ll be back, because you’re stubborn. And I’ll keep chasing you away because you have no home within me anymore. 

Goodbye and good riddance. 

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

PROMPT: A villain falls in love with a new superhero in town

“Okay, wait, this isn’t fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“Why is she so hot? Are heroes allowed to be that hot? I thought hot was our thing?”

“Hot is definitely not our thing.”

“Shouldn’t it be our thing? I thought bad guys were hot or something?”

“Bad guys aren’t hot because they’re bad. They're hot because they're hot, and just so happen to be bad on the side. We’re bad but I don’t think we’re hot.”

Captain Crimson was absolutely right, of course. He’d been cresting into his 40’s and had taken a jaded outlook on his career as a villain. The crimson red-leather jumpsuit he wore was obviously designed for a version of him with a bit more muscle and youthful energy. He’d become a villain in a different age, and found himself afraid to take on a look and a name that was better suited for this era at the risk of losing “decades of branding.” Behind a flimsy eyepiece of a mask, his sad grey eyes stared from the rooftop he’d come to spend his nights upon out of habit. He knew the days of excitement about villainy had long past, and he spent many nights on that roof, wallowing in nostalgia as if it might keep the inevitable mid-life crisis away.

“Speak for yourself my dude, I think I pull this off.”

Equinox did not pull this off. He was new to this, just new enough to be incredibly excited despite being entirely lost. He wore a black bodysuit that, from a distance, might have looked pretty intimidating, if it hadn’t been for the hand-drawn logo and the cheap spandex. He was average height, average build, and far from having any kind of social gravitas or presence. Although Equinox was quite powerful, he’d found that the people of the city didn’t quite take him seriously. Other villains, specifically villains without abilities, knew how to use intimidation and charisma to strike fear into heroes and civilians that was far above what their strength warranted. Equinox was a rare and embarrassing example of the opposite; a man who appeared so goofy and misplaced that his ability to shape-shift was overlooked and laughed at.

“You don’t pull that off. None of us pull this off. She barely even pulls this off.”

They’d been discussing a hero that had come to town last week. She had wild, untamed black hair, and wore a flat black mask that covered her face from the nose down. She had tattoos all over her arms that glowed orange, she had an accent (Canadian? Australian?) and she could teleport. Equinox and Captian Crimson were robbing a bank before she took care of them. Equinox asked who she was so he could deliver his line properly. She told him that his costume sucked and wrapped her arms around him, transporting him so far into the air that he could see the curvature of the Earth. She smelled like flowers. As Equinox took the shape of a glider to float to safety, he became certain that he could get her to have a drink with him if he saw her again, since that hug she gave him was obviously a signal of affection.

“Come on, she pulls it off. She’s got this cool edgy thing going where she’s pretty strong and interesting but she doesn’t make a big deal out of it with her costume, you know? Like, it’s just a mask and she doesn’t even have a superhero name even though she totally could. And her accent is so hot, it’s not even fair.”

“That’s cute. You’re cute. Don’t be sad when I kill her for her bounty though, there are lots of girls with tattoos and accents out there.” Captain Crimson jabbed Equinox’s shoulder, stood, and melted into a puddle of warm red blood that dripped into the roof’s drain pipe.

Equinox shuddered. He found the process of watching his mentor dissolving into a stinking puddle of plasma unsettling, but he also hated the idea of letting this hero die after she’d so obviously professed her affection to him.

“H-Hold on, I’ll help!” He cried, almost tripping as he jumped from the roof to float down to the street below.

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

My language is my awakening.

I only speak one. It’s the third-most spoken language in the world that’s forcing its way into other cultures. I don’t get any sense of culture or identity from it. However.

My language is my awakening.

Language is my window into myself. Language is how I come to the most basic understanding of who I am. Language is how I share myself with others. 

My language is my awakening.

When I began to write, I began to know myself. Writing is solely responsible for my entire sense of self. 

My language is my awakening.

My language isn’t anything special. It fails to describe a great many things. It’s inconsistent, it’s messy, it falls short often. But I am awake because of it.

I am awake. 

[jonatdoeswritingprompts]

The turnout was actually kind of impressive. For as many of these events as I’d been to before this, I’ve never felt like exhibitions really drew crowds like this. People of all kinds of walks of life floated from wall to wall of the whitewashed room, gazing at the pictures that hung on them in beautiful frames. My pictures. That was a thought that I still wasn’t quite comfortable with, even as I sat there observing it as the present reality.

I was lucky that most people didn’t know the face behind the name on the banners outside. They’d walk in knowing that these pictures were the work of Amelia Lawrence, the hot new visual artist that was becoming a beacon of inspiration for late-bloomers everywhere, but most didn’t know what she looked like. That was through the use of some fairly clever pseudonym work on my part, if I can say so without being brash. But it was quite the luxury to be able to walk through my own exhibit just like everyone else.

It was fun to hear what people thought of my work. Men stretching to make intelligent-sounding criticisms to impress their dates, children impressed at the simplest details, and the art snobs who would spit venom at every opportunity. I’m lucky that I don’t see too much of myself in my work, or even care about it all that much. This all came from a hobby I took up to get over a break-up and an existential crisis, and it just so happened that people enjoyed it enough to tell their friends about it. 

Maybe they see themselves in some of the sad self-portraits that have taken the headlines. According to most visual design theory, they’re awful. Hot garbage in every sense. An example in amateurism. Apparently, that’s what makes people like them. That’s what the comment sections say, anyway. Apparently, there’s an emotive authenticity in my face, and an innocent sincerity in the amateurism in my technique. They say it captures the way we throw ourselves into things that don’t quite suit us in response to terrible pain. They say I’m a brilliant photographer for intentionally taking bad pictures to make my point. When I’d assured them that that amateurism is genuine - that I’m truly bad at photography - they seemed to like it more. My biggest fans thought I was so committed to the theme that I continued the charade in public appearances. Others saw it as a confirmation of the genuine quality they see in my work. I guess that’s all very sweet of them, but I can’t help but feel like their praise isn’t quite earned.

That’s what I was thinking of when I was approached by that young woman.