irkjournal

[irkjournal]

someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue

[irkjournal]

A Talented Musician Struggles to Make it Big

Writing Prompt

Words to Include:

Crocodile

Anchor

Lasagna

Anthem

Fingernail

Trout

Federal

Bog

Jostle

Repel

Word Count: 900

When I told myself I was willing to work my way to the top, I never expected writing about a lasagna-eating puppet crocodile. 

Working as a music producer for a children’s TV show isn’t quite what I imagined my music career to consist of - but I convinced myself when I took the job that it would be a starting point. “Real experience”, “practicing my skills”, and “networking with producers” floated around in my head during my first few weeks on the job. Now, I am not sure what I was thinking. After years of being told by family, friends, and teachers that I was talented, years of being told by strangers watching me busking on the sidewalk that I would make it big one day, I ended up here. My saving grace is that this job will be the agent that moves me from kiddie-show producer to award-winning performer.

~~~

Much time has passed since I started working here, and every day that I walk into this building is another day that I can feel my opportunity to “make it big” lessen. The goal was to produce and perform the anthems that defined a generation, and yet everyday I am resigned to persevering through mind-numbing work. My smile I put on to continue my failed attempts at networking my way to a record deal has faded significantly. For months now, I haven’t had time to write and record my own music because the pressures of the job bogged me down.

Today started out bad, and only got worse. Despite the show’s increase in ratings, music streaming, and overall popularity - my boss didn’t even let me finish my coffee before knocking down my office door like some federal agent on a mission, ranting and raving about the “slowed increase of ratings”. As if I don’t spend every day of my life working myself to the bone for this Sesame Street knock-off.

After dealing with my boss’ clear disappointment, I was on the studio stage trying to corral the kids enough for one take of the new song. Just one. Our adult actor in a large “pirate trout” costume was being angrily jostled around by stage parents who insisted on getting their kid in the spotlight. A group of kids were competing against each other in some playground game, and a solitary kid in the corner was eating his fingernails.

At that moment, I realized how far I had strayed from where I wanted to be. My dreams were hanging on by a thread and working here was no longer my starting point, but an anchor holding me down, repelling me from my future.

So I left. Dropped my sheet music and notes where I was standing, grabbed my bag, and drove away. Amidst wandering the streets for hours, I questioned every life decision I had made up until that point. My phone buzzed several times with the directors calling. I shut my phone off and pulled to the side of the road. 

It’s not often you see a grown man bawling his eyes out on the side of the road - I imagine the other drivers enjoyed the show. Maybe after all that time working with young kids regressed me into crying like a child, but at least I got to put on at least one emotional performance.

I felt like I had lost every piece of myself. I felt my dreams of being a successful musician slipping away. My passion, fading before my eyes.

As I sat there, tears finally drying on my face, an epiphany came to me. I felt myself become possessed with a creative fever and began to write down everything I was dealing with. Even though my passions had dwindled recently, the habit of always carrying a pen and paper gave me hope that I hadn’t completely lost my determination to achieve my dreams.

I wrote down a few lines and notes started playing in my head.

Luckily, there were no cops on my way home. My speed would have definitely landed me a spot in jail. But when the idea hits, acting on it is the only choice.

Now, hours later I have worked out a general plan and have finally stopped to take a breath. Looking over the lyrics and sheet music, I feel that this is some of my best work. The type of work that will finally get me noticed, the type of work that doesn’t let my talents go to waste. 

~~~

“So tell me, after all of the awards, the world tours, millions of albums sold, and a long, illustrious music career - to what do you owe your success?”

I thought for a moment before answering the question. I had studied and trained for years, continued writing and working to “perfect” my craft. But whenever I reflect on my life, I go back to that day I walked off that horrid job.

The pain and stress of that job taught me the skills I needed to help me with my current career. Hard work, patience, adaptability. My breakdown that day was the best thing to ever happen to me, and if given the chance I would do it all over again.

I let my bright smile shine and I answered, “A really bad day at work.”

[irkjournal]

I Can't Find My Keys

Short Story: Word Count: 1.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I can’t find my keys,” I explained to him, hands rummaging through the trash. After ruthlessly searching the rest of our apartment, I resorted to looking in the last place I wanted to.

Trying my best to avoid the bits of old food, the wrappers, and junk mail, I exasperated, “I hope my keys are actually in here, because this is disgusting and I don’t want to have done this for nothing.” Despite my annoyance, I let out a small laugh at the ridiculous nature of myself rummaging through the trash like some kind of rodent.

“We are in a rush and you seriously think you threw the keys in the trash?” His tone came out much harsher than I anticipated. 

“I don’t think I threw them in the trash, but what if they accidentally ended up here? I have looked everywhere else.” His unsuspected severe tone made me match his with a calm voice, not wanting to escalate the situation. 

“Did you check our bedroom?”

In a singsong way, I replied, “I just told you, I checked everywhere else.”

“It was just a question. Get out of the trash and check again somewhere else. We are already running late to something you planned.” It was clear that my attempts to ease his annoyance went over his head. Nonetheless, I almost heeded his words. 

“He was probably right,” I thought to myself. “My keys are probably in a jacket pocket somewhere.” But before I called it quits, something caught my eye. Towards the bottom of the pile, hidden between pieces of junk mail, was a familiar piece of paper.

Today is our anniversary. Six years together, two years married. I wanted to have a nice, relaxing day together where we enjoyed reminiscing over our past love-filled memories. Where we could look forward to our long future together. As always, things got in the way. 

First, I picked him up from his buddy’s house after he drunkenly spent the night. After getting him home to sober up, I ran to the bank to deposit his check, picked up a few things from the grocery store that he forgot to get a few days ago, picked up a birthday card for his mother, dropped off a package for him at the post office, took his childhood dog for a walk, and ironed his outfit for the dinner reservations I made for us this evening. It didn’t bother me too much that we couldn’t spend the whole day together, because the night I planned out would make up for our day apart.

Before I started getting ready for our dinner, I gave him a letter. It has been a tradition of mine for every one of our anniversaries to write a letter for him, detailing my love and appreciation. Our lives have been pretty busy, and we have spent less time together lately. So, I went out of my way to put in extra effort. I reminisced about our first date, first anniversary, our wedding day. I wrote out my hopes for our future and reminded him how much I am looking forward to the life we continue to build together. I think it is a sweet tradition, and as a nostalgic romantic, it is something I look forward to every year.

And now, those efforts are at the bottom of the trashcan. The adrenaline from trying to quickly find my keys turned into anger over finding my loving words thrown away like old garbage.

“What is this doing in here?” My anger bubbled out of me while I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

He called out from the other room, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” I could hear him rustling about, double-checking that I didn’t pass over the keys earlier.

“My letter I wrote to you for our anniversary. Why is it in the trash?”

“I don’t know, why did you put it in there?”

I laughed again, this time not because of my comedic actions, but at the sheer audacity.

“I gave it to you before I started getting ready for dinner tonight. I set it right next to you.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you thought you did, but you lost it just like the keys.” After six years of being together, I could tell when he was becoming genuinely upset, his voice shifting to a deeper, more gruff sound.

He comes back into the room with me, his defenses already built between us. I looked at him for a moment, my face bunched up in disbelief. 

“I gave you this letter earlier today, even if I did accidentally toss it, how could it have ended up at the bottom of the trashcan hidden amongst other papers?” The question flowed out of me before I could even process what I had realized. I didn’t want to believe it, and part of me tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence. But based on his reaction, it became apparent that I was right about him deliberately hiding the letter. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he blurted out. I didn’t know what to say, and for a while I just watched him, his gears turning in his head about how to come up with a good excuse. “Let’s just find the keys so we can get out of here.”

I managed to weasel out, “It’s a big deal to me”, before tears started to well in my eyes. Before any teardrops fell, he started in on his attack.

“It’s not like I would have had any time to read it, we’re running late because you had to get ready and lost the keys.”

“I have been busy doing errands for you all day while you were sleeping off a hangover,” I retorted, already hurt by his lack of appreciation. “Why would you throw it away?”

“I already told you, it's just a piece of paper, not a big deal”.

“Just a piece of paper? It’s a sentimental tradition for me. I put in time to tell you how much I love you and you’re saying it’s not a big deal?”

“You know I don’t care about those sentimental things, it’s just a waste of time. Let’s just go before you make us too late with your whining about this.”

My expression hardened as I became appalled at his continued excuses. “I am not going to dinner until we get it sorted out why you all of the sudden disregard the things I do for you.” Every last bit of sense left me as I threw out this accusation.

“What things? I have been at home sick all day while you were out ‘running errands’. You never do anything for me except write these stupid love letters.” 

“Never do anything for you? That has to be a joke.” Even as I said it, a rational thought popped into my head, making me think that I should not let this continue to escalate. But both of us were too into the moment to back out.

“I am not joking. You are always too busy to do anything for me, and instead you find time to write a letter I don’t care about. I never have.”

“I have spent the entire day doing things for you, while you were home hungover - not sick.. I tried to make our anniversary extra special this year, for us, for you, because lately we have both been distanced from each other. What have you done today for our anniversary? What have you done recently?

I blocked out the next few “reasons” from him. My mind was jumbled with a million thoughts about what to do. Forgotten memories flashed through my mind, past romantic attempts being dismissed that I had explained away. Perhaps I should have been more discerning then.

Interrupting his latest excuse, I quietly told him, “It feels like you threw my love away.”

“Oh don’t give me that!” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “I didn’t throw your so-called love away. It is just a piece of paper. If you hadn’t lost your keys and started looking through the trash, you would have never known that I tossed your letters away.”

Despite our current argument, his sudden admission somehow still shocked me.

“You threw all of the letters away?” I questioned him while looking at the trashcan. I was tempted to dig into it again, hoping to recover more, but I knew they were long gone.

“Well, obviously. I won’t ever read them and you knew that when you wrote them. How many times do I have to tell you, it was a waste of your time?”

I wiped the tears streaming down my face as I considered this newfound discovery. All of those letters I wrote while pouring my love out to him were gone. Disregarded. His betrayal hit me so hard that I couldn’t bear to look at him.

“Get out.” A stretch of time passed between us before he responded.

“What?”

“I said get out. I dedicate so much of my time to you, and making this special for you, and now I find out that you don’t care? Considering the fact that you threw my letters away, it makes me think you don’t even love me.” I knew it was a dramatic stretch to say, but little thoughts had crept into my mind planting seeds of doubt. 

“Well not right now, not while you are telling me to get out of our house.”

I scoffed at his statement, wanting to reject his contempt. Red, hot tears blurred my vision as he walked out and slammed the door behind him. 

It took a long time before I finally started to calm down and think about our past together. All of my memories about our relationship were replaced with confusion and doubt. I should have realized sooner. I was too focused on writing my little love letters to notice the writing on the wall.

As my vision finally started to dry up from my tears, I walked over to our entryway table. Lightly organizing the items strewn about gave my hands something to do while I continued to consider what to do after this. I moved some of the shoes underneath, replaced the umbrella upright against the wall, and hung his jacket up that was lying on the floor. Before I walked back into our shared apartment I noticed my keys just laying there, right out in the open.

[irkjournal]

The Comfort Book by Matt Haig

5/5 ☆

The Comfort Book by Matt Haig is just that, a comforting book. Even to a self-proclaimed “skeptic” of the self-help genre, I found myself enjoying Haig’s words and was hesitant to put it down for even a moment. His quotes about the truths of life come off as relaxed - the kind of confessions you might make to a friend during a late-night chat - making the book more relatable, accessible, and realistic.

For those who typically detest the self-help genre, each book tends to blend together and read the same. A constant circle of get up early, work more, just smile, make more money, and the worst of all - “just get over it.” Even books that herald themselves for breaking the mold of the genre end up saying the same so-called “advice”, just written in a different-colored pen. Matt Haig’s book stands out amongst the sea of impractical advice, proving a certain comfort to his readers. 

Based in his own struggles with mental illness, Matt Haig describes the ideas and actions that helped him overcome. When you struggle with severe mental illness and are healing from it, regardless of where you are in that journey, there are going to be bad days. Harder days. The Comfort Book does not promise a life of complete sunshine, but does promise that time will pass, and so will the negatives. Matt Haig encourages readers to confront those feelings and break the consistent cycles of pain. “Walking one foot in front of the other, in the same direction, will always get you further than running round in circles.”

For those that still doubt the book’s stand-out nature, Matt Haig understands how difficult it can be to confront those feelings and to have hope. Other self-help books will tell you that having hope will bring you happiness and positivity in your life. But in Haig’s mind, “Hope isn’t the same thing as happiness. You don’t need to be happy to be hopeful. You need instead to accept the unknowability of the future, and that there are versions of that future which could be better than the present. Hope, in its simplest form, is the acceptance of possibility.” Personally,  accepting possibility is more practical than immediately finding happiness.

Reading this as my first book of 2025, although unintended, was a great start to the new year. Although the book is all of 275 pages, there is a lifetime amount of words to consider. The Comfort Book is destined to be a book readers can return to throughout the challenges of life. As the entire world relaxes into the change of the new year, ready to take on new challenges and goals, Matt Haig gives readers some comforting advice to begin anew:

“You can’t change the past. You can’t change other people. You can change you though. You narrate this story. So start to write a new chapter.”

Favorite Quotes:

“Curiosity and passion are the enemies of anxiety. Even when I fell into anxiety, if I get curious enough about something outside of me it can help pull me out. Music, art, film, nature, conversation, words. Find the passion as large as your fear. The way out of your mind is via the world.”

“The best thing about rock bottom is the rock part. You discover the solid bit of you. You discover the solid bit of you. The bit that can’t be broken down further. The thing that you might sentimentally call a soul. At our lowest we find the solid ground of our foundation. And we can build ourselves anew.”

“You have survived everything you have been through, and you will survive this too. Stay for the person you will become. You are more than a bad day, or week, or month, or year, or even a decade. You are a future of multifarious possibilities. You are another self at a point in future time looking back in gratitude that his lost and former you held on. Stay.”

“The sky isn’t more beautiful if you have perfect skin. Music doesn’t sound more interesting if you have a six-pack. Dogs aren’t better company if you’re famous. Pizza tastes good regardless of your job title. The best of life exists beyond the things we are encouraged to crave.”