naomimoorewrites

[naomimoorewrites]

nothing humbles you faster than realizing the sentence you’re most proud of is grammatically incomprehensible.

[naomimoorewrites]

nothing humbles you faster than realizing the sentence you’re most proud of is grammatically incomprehensible.

[naomimoorewrites]

Reblog if you're a writer who re-reads their own work for funsies.

[naomimoorewrites]

Just write the thing. for 5 minutes. If there's more than 5 minutes of work, great. If not, you had the 5 minutes

[naomimoorewrites]

Dance Dance

As she pulled me onto the makeshift dance floor, I made at least some effort to loosen up. My enthusiasm clearly didn’t match hers and she let out an exasperated huff but didn’t give up on getting me to dance. She gripped my hips and forced me to do a little shimmy. The entire ordeal was mortifying but I loved her just enough to go along with it. 

The celebration continued on into the early hours of the morning. She was never one to kill the party so she was dancing primarily by herself near the end of it. For seemingly forever her golden hair flowed through the air, a smile was plastered on her face, and I stood there laughing at her adlibbing to songs she had to have known already.

“Happy birthday.” She whispered, putting her head on my broad shoulder. My arms wrapped around her and, for the first time that night, I felt completely happy. The feeling didn’t last long and she could tell. “The anniversary is in a week right?” of course she knew, she always knew when I needed her too.

“Yeah,” I spoke into the crown of her head. She was so short, adorably so. When I first saw her I was shocked by how petite she was, almost doll-like. Then I was even more surprised to hear the filth that came out of her mouth.

Her brown doe eyes turned up to me with an undeniable look of pity. I hated when she pitied me, it was insulting. 

“It’s okay, you know, to feel sad.” But it wasn’t, he would never have had let me be sad over him, and I hated him to the grave for that. I turned away from her, suddenly feeling too exhausted to continue this day. She took the hint and dropped the subject. 

It was late, so late that we were the only people crazy enough to still be awake. She was the only one crazy enough to love me now. She is the moon and I am nothing but the helpless tide being commanded by her gravity.

[naomimoorewrites]

Whatever You Do, Don't Stop Writing

Breaking into the literary world is an enigma—daunting and shrouded in rejection. But for some, that challenge is a calling. Before Stephen King’s Carrie became a bestselling phenomenon, it nearly didn’t exist. Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Peter Rabbit? Born from rejection letters and a leap of faith into self-publishing. These stories remind us that the path to creation often begins in the shadows, with nothing but raw determination lighting the way.

Potter’s journey began humbly, crafting whimsical illustrations and tales to amuse her governess’s children. One such tale, featuring a mischievous rabbit, became her passion project. Publishers initially dismissed it, yet Potter refused to let Peter Rabbit remain confined to letters and sketches. In 1901, she privately printed 250 copies of the book, a risk that caught the eye of Frederick Warne & Co., who polished it with color illustrations. From rejection to global acclaim, Potter’s independent spirit forever shaped children’s literature—and merchandising, as she pioneered branded toys and products featuring her beloved characters.

Stephen King’s tale is no less impressive. A young man from Maine, he juggled teaching, odd jobs, and his passion for storytelling. Even as rejection slips piled up, he never stopped writing. When King doubted Carrie, it was his wife, Tabitha, who salvaged the pages from the trash, urging him to finish it. The book’s success was a revelation, proving that even in moments of doubt, the right story can find its moment. Before achieving fame, King dabbled in self-publishing with serialized stories and a homemade newspaper with his brother—proof of his relentless drive to share his voice, no matter the medium.

Fast forward to today, and Ruby Dixon follows in these footsteps of self-reliance. Renowned for the viral success of her Ice Planet Barbarians, she carved a niche in self-published romance, building a devoted audience through humor, steamy adventures, and fantastical worlds. Beginning in niche subgenres, Dixon redefined what independent publishing could achieve in the digital age.

These authors share an essential truth: the creative journey is often riddled with obstacles, but perseverance, faith in your vision, and a willingness to take risks can break barriers. These authors prove that you don’t have to wait for permission to share your stories. Put your work out into the world. Someone, somewhere, is waiting to connect with your art.

[naomimoorewrites]

Slow Sink

then

While you waste time barking at the moon… I’m dying which, as you know, means I’m dying as well. That is truth, not a perspective. Your fear is understandable, but groundless. We have no choice. Without you I am nothing.

No buts, I will do anything - against any odds - to have more time with you, anything. 

And if you die?

And if I die, I will find you in death. 

How terrible is it to love something that Death can touch. Old beasts have odd hungers. In somnis veritas; in dreams, there is truth. It is okay to be a little broken. 

Today, nothing makes sense. I get flustered, stumble over my words, and misinterpret their signals. 

Focus your attention on the sensations in your chest, your stomach, your shoulders.

Relationships contract and relax, get close and come apart. The more gruelling the struggle, the more spectacular the triumph. Figure out how to live your life being yourself. It’s okay to nurse your wounds, but don’t get stuck in a cycle of self pity. Anger was better than fear. Better than tears and grief, and guilt. 

How can I explain myself? It could all be so simple. But you'd rather make it hard. Loving you is like a battle. We both end up with scars. Tell me who I have to be. 

Let me go. Leave. I keep letting you back in. 

You, precious you. He clasps my cheeks between his hands. How can I explain myself?

Look. As painful as this thing has been, I can't just quit now. I know what I must do: you let go and I'll let go too. Listen, no one has ever hurt me as much as you, and no one ever will. 

When I try to walk away you hurt yourself to make me stay. This is insane. I know you care for me. You said you cared for me. 

No one loves you as much as me, and no one ever will.

now

Sometimes I lose myself. Lose the power to govern my own body. Lose the ability to even care. The loss is never obvious. Explicit. 

It's a slow sink until I'm miles underground. Alone. Left without a ladder. And I have to claw my long way back. And I suppose that's my fault. I should have known. But I didn’t need a ladder on the way down.

Is it to stay tucked away in the belly of the earth? Is it wrong to even wonder? To ask: who makes the decisions? The one who has the answers. That’s obvious I have so many questions 

My ability to answer is hindered by your ability to ask the right questions.

What do you gain from this sick cycle? This perverted carousel. More importantly, what have we lost? What were you willing to lose to be here?

with you             with me

Do you wonder if maybe you gave up too much? Maybe the prize was not worth the sacrifice.

Any part I lost I replaced with bits of you. Your smile was brighter than mine anyways. And what was my laugh worth? Now that I have yours.

There are no pieces of me missing that I can say I miss. I am not an incomplete being. I am better. What is gone has simply been replaced. I am whole, as long as I have you.

He was dead before he hit the floor. The dead are dead. The living grieve. I spent the last ten years expelling demons.

Be mad at me all you want. I am staying by your side.

Men are taught shame from the womb. Men are shown shame and then they are contained, kept in line, in the rigid masculine condition.

Adam was at Eve’s side when the serpent coaxed her into the first bite. Eve’s sin was curiosity. The damnation of women’s inquisitive minds. And man’s first sin? Cowardice. Adam, gardener, protector, stood by and did nothing. Eve curious and Adam cowardly. And from then on, both were casted away into a world of shame.

Who is the God that can deliver you from my hands? Who’s gonna save you?

[naomimoorewrites]

Sorry to break it to you, but it's not going to write itself. So you might as well get to work.

[naomimoorewrites]

Rumination

Torturing yourself is fruitless. When you fall, humble yourself. Do not torment yourself with thoughts of forgiveness and lack thereof. With the same trust and daring on your thousandth time as on your first, offer it up.

It’s above me now. I am what I am. So what can be expected of me. I'm a bastard. You're a bastard. We're all bastards here.

In the end, every tear will be wiped away. For you are good and pure, of that I am sure.

Oh Lord, I have done this because I am what I am. And so what can be expected of me. Such transgressions or even worse. I would like to find out where I die, and vow to never go there. I know my fate and I would like to never meet it. Those who are humble will be exalted. Who do you compare yourself to? I was so profoundly lazy. I am not a good person. I am a murderer. It's obvious in his stature. He regrets nothing. For he is dead. The dead do not regret and how in this moment I wish that was me. 

I will answer with truth even if I'd rather cut my tongue out. My soft heart hates to cause her pain. But I will. I have been secretive for a long time. I was not able To share my truth with another. Sharing my thoughts could have resulted in a merciless death. But I am trying.

Stand vigil. Push through the night, pray continuously. Midnight is the height of the spiritual battle. Then, wait soberly, and you will see demons running to the retreating darkness. Behold the bright, exposing light of day.

I had a debt To pay and so I found you. Exposed. Your illness. Your pain. Your loss. All in service of God’s entertainment.

We all have one life, but in you I wished to live again. To be with you, from the beginning. For I lived a thousand lifetimes in your eyes. Now your eyes have shut and now a thousand lifetimes you deny. Now you've closed my gates to eternity. Maybe I'll persuade you to open those gates for me once again, in the next life.

How does it feel to die? To be reborn? Does the novelty wear off after like the second time. It’s easy to be courageous when there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s impossible, actually.

Everyone dies twice, the day they stop breathing and the day their name is last uttered. And as you read these words right now, you forget. You are dying.

There is a soft knock at the door. It’s far too early for breakfast, so this must be about something else. Fear skitters through me. 

Hey, let’s be honest and brave now. Okay? And I do not reply, I cannot reply. And she sighs. A resigned acceptance. We take a walk. Look at the geese.

Some people are not afraid of dying. That’s crazy because it scares the shit out of me. 

And so we sit in silence.

You know, I never expected to find anything. 

She squints at the horizon and the sun falling into obscurity.

I look to her and think it might be nice for a fresh start. You are the answer to my prayers. I’m doing fine trying to topple my tower of self-doubt and pity. What a skyscraper I have created.

Bow before dishonour herself. And that is precisely what I do. I kneel at her feet. Rub my face against her pillow-soft thighs. There I beg for forgiveness. For solace. For peace.

Why did you do it? She asks.

Because he asked for help. To be in this existence, this experience, you must feel both the glory and the Cross. They joy and the pain. He had chosen to set his down. This is a fallen world. Already forsaken. Your God has left you. An absent father.

Pain is simply participating in the fight for moral redemption. Pain unites us. How to open the heavens to the earth? Suffer, and offer it up. God, use this. Father, unite my sufferings to your suffering. Pain makes a story compelling. There is no life without suffering.

“Please,” Her eyes scrunch shut as she whispers, “say it isn’t so.”

She doesn’t come to see me the next morning and I try to swallow my disappointment.  

If she can’t understand me, I understand that.

[naomimoorewrites]

plot twists are just me surprising myself because i didn’t plan ahead.

[naomimoorewrites]

Solitaire

So much of my life has been defined by death. 

Eventually we all crumble under the weight of time and my husband was never a particularly patient man.  Of course, this is how it would be in the end. You and I.

I could not decide who I was dreading more: the living or the dead. Bowing to fate, I find myself engaged in yet another conversation that I do not want to be in - consoling those who I willingly hurt. I did not visit my husband before they placed him in the earth.

When God made Eve, It did not take from Adam's head - to lord over him - nor from his feet - to be walked on by him. God took from Adam’s rib - to walk beside him. From his chest - to be close to his heart. To protect that heart, This is why man eventually must leave his parents and find his wife. And when he finds her he must cling to her, for she is the protector of his heart. And when I saw him, in the flesh, in only his perfect flesh, I felt no shame. I was supposed to be his Eve.

I do not remember when the sun stopped shining. This was not murder, just justifiable homicide. Equal parts dim and dangerous. His love required me to suffer and I do that well enough on my own.

Every choice comes at a cost, love. 

He leans in and lowers his voice, the game only works with players who want to live. Those who want to die have a whole other set of rules. Don't you really think I deserve something better? Don’t you?

Ever since the first taste of blood. The mouths that brush each other during our affair. I said I want a child - before knowing love. But this love I have now overflows from me. I gaze down at my beautiful baby boy and say "you are not like the others. Man will try to take your heart from you. Fight, you will have a spectacular life”

We raised a Cain, and foolishly named him Abel. My sweet little monster. Brutality was his nature. Those particular demons came from his father's side.

When one believes they don’t deserve something, they’ll work incredibly hard to get rid of it.

And so the logical conclusion is that when one believes they are worthy, they will work incredibly hard to attain it.

My little boy has been blue without his father.

Being depressed is a privilege. Growing old is a gift. My father is a monster, and the world made him this way. I completely understand but that does not stop the hurt. No amount of knowledge seems to stop me from feeling.

The truth may set you free but first it will make you miserable. Your father was a monster and so am I. 

Our whirlwind love was innocent enough in the beginning. 

I can tell you're a decent man. I'm not sure that's true. I was foolish to believe I knew what a decent man could look like.

Our wedding was nice enough.

When God made Eve, He did not take from Adam’s head, to lord over him, nor from his feet, to be walked on. God took from his rib—to walk beside him. From his chest—to be close to his heart, to protect it. That’s why man must leave his parents and find his wife, to cling to her, for she is his heart’s protector. Beautiful vows and a terrible truth.

Your demise was long coming.

My eyes cast down, “Yes sir-” Then he smacks me across the face. He grips my chin and leans in, “don't ever show someone that much respect. Respect is to be earned, you understand me?”

Tired of my misery, I find some spirits to wash the day away. By the bottom of the bottle I expect to still feel the pain. In the morning I hope to forget it.

Adam was by Eve’s side when the serpent coaxed her to take the first bite. Her sin was curiosity—the damnation of women’s inquisitive minds. And man’s first sin? Cowardice. Adam, gardener, protector, stood by and did nothing. Eve was curious, and Adam, cowardly. Cast into a world of guilt and shame.

I see Adam one last time. I approach to say my final goodbye.  When you die - when your soul is reclaimed to wherever it came from - you will go with nothing you had clung to so desperately in this life.

I don't argue with ignorance. If culling humanity worked then it would have by now. Witches keep popping up - educated women. Resilient minorities. Almost as if they provide some other advantage to the evolution of the human race.

Existence… has been excruciating lately. I can’t remember when the sun last shone. Cleaning? Never my strong suit. I made the mess more often than I fixed it. But I persevere for my little ankle biter.

Dada his first words - fitting.

This is a wonderful experience my boy, and I love being here. 

We're not getting better, this world is only getting worse. Life's hard - that's not unique to you. Cope better. Some say the road to heaven was paved with bad intentions and I believe this to be true.

Ever since I did not have the right I've wanted a child in my belly. I should have surely kept quiet sometimes but then I wouldn't have him. The desire was so great and menacing. All I wanted was a child in my belly. To love each other, to have a spectacular life.

Bloodsoaked and panting. My beautiful baby boy. All I want is for you to be proud of me. And I am. New beginnings are often seen as painful endings.

[naomimoorewrites]

Lingering

1027 words

I woke up with the distant dream of him lingering in the sleepy corners of my mind. One man cannot ruin the world, but he destroyed mine. I am where people go to get lost. Although I mean no harm, I’ve caused so much already. I put in a good effort but that isn't good enough, is it? I am the shadow. The echo of the one you want. The aftershocks of their charm. And I was once okay with that. Okay with being the second choice. Being the afterthought. Because at least I was being thought of. Because let's face it, I wouldn't choose me either.

I had not yet left my room. For hours I lay in bed, holding onto a sliver of hope that I could magically come up with a plan. Any plan, something so I did not have to face what lay on the other side of the white wooden door.

With the sun so too rose my resolve, and my hunger. I knew that I would have to venture beyond my four walls sooner or later, and it was already later. Judging by the position of the sun, it was well past breakfast and maybe even lunch. Getting up was only the first challenge.

My bones were not made for this world, my body was too weak to withstand its gravity. When were you last frightened by a lie? This was a wretched world. Guilt and grief weigh me down like cinder blocks.

Sometimes I fear that I am nothing more than a bunch of bugs using my body as a trench coat

And then, it was a new day. 

Yet my demons were the same. Again and again and again, again.

Torturing yourself is fruitless. When you fall, humble yourself. Do not torment yourself with thoughts of forgiveness and lack thereof. With the same trust and daring on your thousandth time as on your first, offer it up.

It’s above me now. I am what I am. So what can be expected of me. I'm a bastard. You're a bastard. We're all bastards here.

In the end, every tear will be wiped away. For you are good and pure, of that I am sure.

Oh Lord, I have done this because I am what I am. And so what can be expected of me. Such transgressions or even worse. I would like to find out where I die, and vow to never go there. I know my fate and I would like to never meet it. Those who are humble will be exalted. Who do you compare yourself to? I was so profoundly lazy. I am not a good person. I am a murderer. It's obvious in his stature. He regrets nothing. For he is dead. The dead do not regret and how in this moment I wish that was me. 

I will answer with truth even if I'd rather cut my tongue out. My soft heart hates to cause her pain. But I will. I have been secretive for a long time. I was not able To share my truth with another. Sharing my thoughts could have resulted in a merciless death. But I am trying.

Stand vigil. Push through the night, pray continuously. Midnight is the height of the spiritual battle. Then, wait soberly, and you will see demons running to the retreating darkness. Behold the bright, exposing light of day.

I had a debt To pay and so I found you. Exposed. Your illness. Your pain. Your loss. All in service of God’s entertainment.

We all have one life, but in you I wished to live again. To be with you, from the beginning. For I lived a thousand lifetimes in your eyes. Now your eyes have shut and now a thousand lifetimes you deny. Now you've closed my gates to eternity. Maybe I'll persuade you to open those gates for me once again, in the next life.

How does it feel to die? To be reborn? Does the novelty wear off after like the second time. It’s easy to be courageous when there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s impossible, actually.

Everyone dies twice, the day they stop breathing and the day their name is last uttered. And as you read these words right now, you forget. You are dying.

There is a soft knock at the door. It’s far too early for breakfast, so this must be about something else. Fear skitters through me. 

Hey, let’s be honest and brave now. Okay? And I do not reply, I cannot reply. And she sighs. A resigned acceptance. We take a walk. Look at the geese.

Some people are not afraid of dying. That’s crazy because it scares the shit out of me. 

And so we sit in silence.

You know, I never expected to find anything. 

She squints at the horizon and the sun falling into obscurity.

I look to her and think it might be nice for a fresh start. You are the answer to my prayers. I’m doing fine trying to topple my tower of self-doubt and pity. What a skyscraper I have created.

Bow before dishonour herself. And that is precisely what I do. I kneel at her feet. Rub my face against her pillow-soft thighs. There I beg for forgiveness. For solace. For peace.

Why did you do it? She asks.

Because he asked for help. To be in this existence, this experience, you must feel both the glory and the Cross. They joy and the pain. He had chosen to set his down. This is a fallen world. Already forsaken. Your God has left you. An absent father.

Pain is simply participating in the fight for moral redemption. Pain unites us. How to open the heavens to the earth? Suffer, and offer it up. God, use this. Father, unite my sufferings to your suffering. Pain makes a story compelling. There is no life without suffering.

“Please,” Her eyes scrunch shut as she whispers, “say it isn’t so.”

She doesn’t come to see me the next morning and I try to swallow my disappointment.  

If she can’t understand me, I understand that.

[naomimoorewrites]

For Your Amusement

Sour like thrown-up wine, acid on my tongue. It’s the taste that lingers, the kind that leaves a sourness stuck to your teeth. I don’t know why I’m still here, but here I am. Doing the best I can with what God gave me, which isn’t much. Not enough, certainly. But that's all I’ve got.

God takes what it wants. It doesn’t ask. It doesn’t even apologize. I’m not one for religion, but I think I get it now. My body’s not a temple, it’s more like an amusement park - littered with cotton candy and spilled popcorn, noisy, attracting people who are more interested in the cheap thrills than anything that might actually matter. I’ve got roller coasters of anxiety and a ferris wheel of regret, but no one’s coming to my rundown show. And the rides? They keep spinning anyway. No one’s stopping them.

No one’s stopping me. In the dead of night when there is no one around to see me consume consume consume There’s a light in the fridge, so what am I supposed to do? If we’re not supposed to have them, then why is the universe always handing me a little sweet treat, a little moment of distraction? And don’t even get me started on the microwave. You can heat up leftovers, no problem, but you can’t heat up your life. You can’t go back to that thing you screwed up three years ago and fix it. You can’t pop your mistakes into the microwave and hit “reheat.” That’d be nice, though. But if you’ve learned anything from living as long as I have, you’d know that the only thing reheated in this life is disappointment.

I’ve spent enough time staring at my reflection to know that I’m not special. If you had lived my life—if you could somehow do the thing where you get into my head and really feel it, front to back—you wouldn’t dare call me privileged. Or maybe you would, but you’d be wrong. Because the last time I checked, privilege doesn’t come with this kind of exhaustion, with this weight on your chest, with this sneaky voice in your head telling you that you’re nothing, that nothing you do matters. And that’s what I have. A voice. That’s all. The rest is just noise.

So, yeah, maybe I’m privileged. I get to wake up in a bed that’s mine and go to a fridge that’s stocked with food I can eat at 3 AM when the world’s asleep and I’m wide awake with nothing to do except stew in my own thoughts. Privilege doesn’t come with happiness. It comes with expectations. The constant sense that you should be better, do more, try harder. Maybe I’m tired of trying. Maybe I’ve been tired for years.

But I can’t stop, can I? Not now. It’s like being on one of those roller coasters that never ends. I’m strapped in, and the ride just keeps going.

I open my eyes to the same thing every day: the light in the fridge, the dark outside, the same dirty dishes that’ll still be there when I get back. It’s all so fucking predictable.

But if I’ve learned anything from living as long as I have, it’s this: you can hate it, but you can’t stop it. Not really. You can ignore it, numb yourself with whatever’s available - sleep, food, wine, Netflix - consume consume consume. But at the end of the day, it’s just you. And I’m not even sure who that is anymore.

So here I am. Still alive. Still here.

Doing the best I can with what God gave me.

[naomimoorewrites]

There Is No Such Thing as ‘Bad Art’

What is “bad art,” really? Is it a stray brushstroke? A faltering melody? Or could it be something else entirely—a perception, a shadow of doubt cast by the world’s obsession with perfection?

Art defies such absolutes. It is neither “good” nor “bad.” It simply is. A child’s crayon drawing on the fridge, a song sung softly in a dimly lit room, or a story that never quite gets its ending right—all of these are art. Not because they adhere to some imagined standard, but because they carry the weight of a soul daring to speak.

There is power in imperfection. The sketch that you almost threw away holds the raw energy of a moment captured. That off-key note, ringing out in defiance, is an anthem to vulnerability. The plot hole in your story? It’s an invitation for the reader to dream beyond your words.

Art is not about mastery. It is about risk—the leap of sharing a piece of yourself with a world that may never understand it. It’s about emotion, about the echoes that linger in the viewer’s mind, long after the art is seen or heard.

So, the next time you’re haunted by doubt, ask yourself: Does this creation carry a piece of me? Did it make someone—anyone—feel something? If the answer is yes, then what you’ve made is not “bad.” It’s real.

Art is not a destination; it is a reflection of the journey. Imperfect, raw, and utterly human. And therein lies its mystery. What you dismiss as flawed could be the very thing that resonates most deeply with another.

There is no such thing as “bad art.” There is only the courage to create—and that, in itself, is extraordinary.

[naomimoorewrites]

Born To Be

Unfortunately, I am my father’s daughter, not a daddy’s girl, and I will ruin you just as he ruined me.

It was the first lesson he taught me. Not in words, but in the way he left. In the silence that stretched across every room he wasn’t in, every memory that frayed and unraveled with the touch of time. He showed me how to ruin people, how to break them without ever lifting a hand. You don’t need fists to destroy something. All you need is to leave.

My first love was the night sky. That endless, indifferent everything was a mirror to my soul. I thought I could belong to it, be lost in the stars, be swallowed up whole. I’m made of stardust and my mother’s tears—what a fragile thing, a girl shaped by the cosmos and sorrow. I savoured the quiet, the stillness of night, when the only sound was the murmurs of my own thoughts. Even then, I couldn’t stop wondering if I was meant for more than this.

You, however, were never in a position to think about what you want. It’s your privilege, your flaw. In many ways, it’s an interruption of the will. Wanting things, desiring them, is an act of surrender. And you’re not the type to surrender. I always liked that about you. 

Unfortunately, I was raised on a diet of resentment and cold shoulders, and I’ve learned to turn it into something else. Something sharper. Your heart is all I know. It’s all I need to know. I can see it, beating in your chest, reckless, untamed, a constant reminder of everything I’ve never had. And I see you—I see the way you wear every emotion on your face, clear as day. 

Everything is possible once you stop hiding from yourself. But the truth is, I’ve never really been able to do that. Every time I face what’s inside me, I see his face—my father’s face—and the wreckage he left behind. I thought I could love freely, but love, for me, is always tainted with the fear of losing. It’s a hollow kind of love. A love that makes you take what you can while you still can, before it all slips through your fingers like sand.

All that I’ve done, I did it for love. But love, it never looks like what you think it will. Not when you’re used to loving with your teeth and claws, carving your own ravenous way through a world that only takes.

It is no small blessing that we are here today, standing in the light of this fragile moment. Humans are made to adapt, to survive. The strong survive, and the weak—well, they fade. I wasn’t made to feel joy or gladness, it’s not in my genes. I was made to feel the absence of it, and to keep moving forward anyway. To keep pretending like the void inside me isn’t growing larger by the day.

And you—you—you are wonderfully untamed. It’s a thing I envy. You don’t care about the consequences, don’t think about the cost. You’re alive in a way that I haven’t been in a long time, maybe ever. It’s simple, and yet, not easy. And I know you already understand that. I know you’ve tasted it.

One must feel weak before they choose to be strong, but humans—humans are stupid and selfish by design. We mimic the ways of prey. We run. We hide. We think we have control, but we don’t.

She doesn’t look at me. She sees. There’s a difference. She’s not blind. She’s not ignorant. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Why would I need input from you? What could you possibly tell me about who I am, when you’ve never had to live through what I’ve lived through? 

I tried to meet her gaze, but her eyes avoided mine, flicking down to the clay caked under her nails. It’s always something like that, isn’t it? When I try to make a connection, to feel something—anything—that could tie me to someone, to something, they simply slip away. Just like he did. Just like everyone else.

Back when I was easy to love, I thought maybe I could still be saved. Maybe if I gave enough, loved enough, maybe the world would finally give my lost youth back. But that’s not how it works, is it? You are loved, even when you’re hard to love. Especially when you’re hard to love, and forgotten when you are easy. Shame grows in secrecy.

I can be part of the problem or part of the solution. Today, I felt like being part of the problem. Because solutions are just another way of pretending everything’s okay. They aren’t. I’m not okay, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

My mother crushed my hopes and dreams often, out of love. She would say it was for my own good, but I never believed her. I’m just a girl who’s angry at her father. That deadbeat fuck - he left us all. Three families, and six broken hearts. I see how you could leave me, but them? How can you abandon not one, but three? That feckless ass, I hope he steps on glass, but I know he’d just leave that blood on the floor, just like he left the rest of us.

My home was never more than a shaky shelter. It was a place that cannibalized me, chewed me up, and picked its teeth with my bones. I wanted to run away since I was old enough to understand what running meant. To get away from the suffocating warmth of the rooms where love was a weapon, not a comfort. Where words, wielded like weapons, were used to break you down. Where hugs felt like a bear trap.

I know I’m stupid. I know I’m selfish. I know that’s what they say about people like me. But we were designed this way, weren’t we? We were designed to want, to take, to consume. And anyone who says otherwise—well, they have an agenda. Some things aren’t God’s fault. Some things are just human wrongs now baked into our dna.

If you spend your life hiding, in the end, you won’t have the strength to stand. So I opened all the doors and windows. I let the wind rush in. I let you in. You should feel lucky. I never open myself up to anyone. But for you, I made an exception.

You are worthy of love. And I’m sorry this has happened to you. You foolishly created expectations of an uncaring universe, and I respect you enough to tell you the truth: There is no reason. There is no purpose. There’s just this. This moment. This brokenness. And it is all I know.

[naomimoorewrites]

How to Read like a Writer

When reading as a writer, you must question every single choice that the author decided to keep in the final draft of the story. You must assume that it was intentionally left there to hold a clue, convey a feeling, connect ideas, and/or point to an overall theme. Here's a starter pack of questions to ask when reading as a writer, broken down into the 3 main elements of storytelling:

SETTING

Why did the author choose this setting?

Does the setting affect the story? If yes, in what way?

How do the characters interact with the setting?

Could the setting be different? If yes, how would that affect the overall story?

CHARACTERS

Did the author develop all of the main characters in the story?

What makes the characters relatable?

How do the characters reflect the theme(s) of the novel?

How do the characters change throughout the story?

Are you satisfied with the way the characters progress or are there opportunities to do more?

PLOT

What makes you care about what happens to the characters in this story?

What conflicts (internal and external) cause the characters to act the way they do?

Are the characters' choices moving the story forward naturally or is the author forcing the characters to do something that may not be natural to them?

How does the plot contribute to the theme of the story?

How does the author build momentum towards the climax?

How long does the author give between climax and resolution?

OVERALL

How did the author transition from one scene to the next?

How did the pacing change through the story?

Do you feel like the pacing fits the moment?

Did you notice the flow of language?

Did it shift to match the pace, tone, or mood of the scene?

What did you think of the author's word choice?

Did it enhance the reading experience and, if so, how?

What part of the story hooked you and why?

What character grabbed you and why?

What did the author choose to show in the scene?

What do you wish they did show?

How did the point of view affect the way you experienced the story?

Could a switch in point of view have improved the story? If so, how?

What stylistic choices did the author make with the prose, and how did those choices impact the overall storytelling?

What do you like about this story?

What did the author do well?

What wasn't done well?

What tone and mood do the writer use throughout the story and how does that affect your reading experience?

Be sure to defend your answer with more than “yes” or “no.” The answers to these questions will improve your writing.

Reading like a writer takes practice. After all, you’ve spent decades reading as a “reader,” i.e. the intended audience. Switch up your focus and approach content from the writer’s perspective. It will make you a better writer. Put the above tips into practice and you’ll see how quickly your storytelling abilities improve, specifically pacing, plotting, and characterization.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ Tips & Advice ⚜ Rhetoric Active Reading ⚜ Historical Research ⚜ Critical Reading

[naomimoorewrites]